


Collateral Impact

by BakerTumblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: COVID 19, Chapters are not linear in the storyline, Complete, Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, Future Time Slide, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Maybe not so much a hopeful ending after all, Medical, Medical Reflections, Yes hopeful and happy ending, medical PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:02:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 34,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23655043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: Ever think about what it might've been like on Baker Street, for John being medical, and what might have crossed his mind?Some short, random COVID 19 thoughts.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 393
Kudos: 240
Collections: Isolated Johnlock Collection





	1. Ripples

"No. That's not what I said."

"Yes it is, you said medicine is your ..." and Sherlock couldn't stop the sneer. If words could be palpable, this one was the equivalent of getting smacked with a brick. "Calling."

"Yes it is, that's true." John couldn't stop the bristling either, at his words, the tone, and the fact that John'd bared his soul, made a difficult decision, and that Sherlock had bloody well tuned out what he'd said on the heels of what he'd fixated on. "But I said something else and you were too busy figuring out what you were going to tell me, the arguments you were preparing. Too busy to _listen_."

An eye narrowed, the muscles and the shape of his lower jaw changed, clenched, aggravated. Sherlock did, however, keep quiet, and after a moment each of them seething at each other, he made an impatient gesture, accompanied by an eye-roll, a _get on with it then_.

"I do feel like I need to help, need to do something, need to lend a hand." His words were quiet, his tone, not quite kind but at least calm, cool. "They need more providers." Indeed, there had been a calling, a recruitment, for anyone with medical skills, and a hotline that would funnel the additional requested resources. "It's terrible when you're on the front line and there's just not enough help. It's like you're drowning, or in this case, knowing it's coming, and there just aren't enough hours in the day, hands in the mix." John hesitated, wanting to make sure that Sherlock really did hear him, really understood. "But taking care of patients in a pandemic, for me or for anyone else, is not the primary thing." Sherlock did seem a bit surprised at that, and John waited until he had his full attention. "It is definitely not the most important thing."

Sherlock's eyes remained cool, guarded.

"What's most important, is that I take care of myself first, and then take care of ... anyone else."

"So you mean to tell me," Sherlock said, challenging, almost caustic in his disbelief, "that if someone comes in that is likely infected and they are going to ... I don't know, bleed out, you're actually going to take a minute, or two, and get your protective gear on first?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying. We say it all the time: there's no emergency in a pandemic. In an airplane, it's put your own oxygen mask on first before assisting others. Back in Afghanistan, the phrase was, everyone goes home safe. You absolutely have to take the moment, as long as it takes, to protect yourself."

There was something of a glare. "That's not your style. You jump in, both feet. You shoot the cabbie first. You ... react."

"It's a different culture now." He took a small breath, hesitated, hoped the charge between them lessened a little. "I have too much at stake, you, Rosie, to risk not gearing up. And I'm not going to lie, there is still a little bit of a risk. But there's risk at the store, anywhere. And we have PPE to protect ourselves."

"What if the hospital runs out?"

"Then I'm not going on the room. I'm just not. Nor should anyone." Sherlock did seem a mite less bristly, and John took the moment, touched his hand. "Stamford, he's just ... beside himself. Providers, some of them, are frightened, refusing. And they're recommending those over 60 stay out of the clinical area." This data was in the few things they'd found useful from where the virus had originated. And Mike had shared he had a few docs on staff who were in their second trimester of pregnancy and had taken leave. Understandably, John knew. He refocused himself. "The nurses need someone they can work with. The ICU, Sherlock, he took me up, showed me around a little. They're as ready as they can be, for when the surge hits. And the nurses are probably more at risk, they're going to be in the rooms longer, taking care of meds, and care, moving, washing. Emergency procedures. And it's a whole new game for them, too. A patient pops off the ventilator, they have to wait, and yes, they might die before you get your gear on. It's a fact now. I mean, they take measures to prevent it, to tape connections and work smart. But the staff has been directed to do everything short of tackle one of their co-workers before letting them go in ... exposed."

"It's hard to imagine."

"It is. But it's ingrained now. There's no emergency in a pandemic."

"When do you start?"

"I told him I needed to talk to you first. And if you're not okay with it, then I'll walk away."

Obviously, given the quick glance Sherlock bestowed on him, he was surprised and definitely not expecting that. "You would?"

"Yes." John could have added many things, clarified it, explained it, but he didn't. He waited patiently, expectantly, calm.

"Okay," Sherlock breathed eventually, then said it again, "All right," in a more settled tone. "If the tables were turned, you would be okay with me helping."

"I would, yes."

"You would worry, though?" Sherlock said quietly, and John could hear the concern, the fear, the underlying question.

"Of course I would. It's natural now. Everyone who is honest would agree that they are a little worried." Their hands touched, met, and Sherlock's long fingers intertwined with John's cooler ones. "Thanks for trusting me. It'll be all right."

"I do trust you to take care of yourself. Take care of us." He sat up straighter, a bit more himself, more comfortable than he'd been for this awkward and sobering conversation. "I also trust that you're about to make me a nice cup of tea."

John chuckled, also feeling relieved that the decision was a joint one, and that it had been finally, calmly _made_. "Some things never change."

"Oolong." Came the words, calmly floating along behind John as he did actually move to the kitchen. "Two sugars." Even with his back turned, John could hear the smile in the words.


	2. Getting Oriented

John tucked his mobile into the clear plastic bag, removed the air, sealed it. Eventually he would hopefully slide it into a pocket of his scrubs, probably not look at it much during his shift - no time, not worth it. His office that he shared with four or five other intensivists was empty at the moment, and he took a deep breath, a slow inhale, and looked around. After working already the past few days, it at least no longer was that foreign, he knew where things were and was perhaps slightly less on edge.

Once more into the breach.

His jacket was already hanging, keys and such tucked into coat pocket, and he grabbed a pair of hospital scrubs from the shelf, ducked into the alcove to quickly remove his street clothes, tuck them into a (clean, wiped, safe) locker. The shoes stashed under his locker from yesterday, he slid his feet into, put shoe covers over them all. The shoes would not be going to Baker Street, ever.

There was a mirror, and he double checked his gear, his garb. A surgical head covering was in a stack by the door, and this he donned too. He'd been issued a pair of clear, plastic goggles that wrapped around his eyes, protection from droplets and spray and aerosolised particles. These he put on, too. There would be more gear, an N95 in the rack by the nurses station. Outside each room, in racks and on tables, would be gloves, gowns, bonnets, procedure masks, face shields.

The unit was ... tense. At no time was the COVID ICU a pleasant place, with the staff all looking mildly haunted, concerned, in their stomping out fires from room to room, trying to cheat this godawful disease. Someone had called it a war zone, and while John didn't agree on every level (having lived the war zone, thank you very much), there were certainly similarities. And he'd just walked into it again and could sense the latest battle. Given the stretcher in the hallway, the staff in various spots outside and inside one of the rooms, an admission had just arrived, doing poorly.

At his elbow as he rounded the room, looking in through the glass doors, getting a feel for the severity, the instability, appeared the doc who would be handing off the unit to him. "Dr. Watson?"

"John, yes."

"I just called anaesthesia to intubate this one. ABG is shitty, labouring. X-ray the same hell as the others, damned bilateral diffuse infiltrates, whited out entirely."

John nodded, knowing that his role would be to oversee, address consultants, enter orders, answer questions, and give direction. The patient truly looked awful, circumoral cyanosis, not mentating, respiratory rate in the fifties, pulse oximeter flashing steadily 68, 67, 64, 63 ...

"You got checked off on central lines?" The doc was asking, and John nodded, the itch under his skin of knowing his role, helping. He knew that his muscle memory, the technical skill learned in medical units in Afghanistan, the hospitals before and after, where he'd risen to the occasion. This first several would be very intentional, a by the book recall of procedure, of detail, deliberate and methodical; subsequent ones, also by the book of course, but more natural. "Triple lumen kit's on the counter, if you're interested. IJ or femoral, your preference." At his nod again, the tech arrived at his elbow, N95s in hand, holding out each box for him to choose his size. He waited at the doorway, knowing that while the line was important, the airway trumped all of it.

He hovered, biding his time in the hallway, keeping himself out of the way and out of the room for the moment, where providers in PAPRs at the head attended to the airway, glidescope in use, sedation given and paralytics to minimise coughing. One of the nurses asked if he needed anything else, for the line or his protective equipment. He did a mental check, head to toe: bonnet over cap, faceshield, gown, double gloves, shoe covers. He smiled even from behind the mask, knowing all she could see were serious dark eyes. "Just size seven and a half gloves, thanks." He flexed his fingers. "Maybe an eight too, for the layers." Both were retrieved, set by the central line supplies, with a minimum of fuss.

The off-going doc spoke again. "Good luck. Going to be a long couple of days I think."

Twelve-plus hours later, at the end of the shift, John could only agree. The line was almost a distant memory, hours ago, and since then, admissions and transfers and deciding on oxygen modalities. Sedation practices were altered based on pharmacy availabilities, and John found that endlessly frustrating, that drug supplies determined ordering practices. But they managed and he did not compromise patient comfort or safety, or staff safety, not once. But he was exhausted, emotionally, mentally, and physically. The process of ending a shift was tedious as well: report (depressing, most of the patients not making any progress, the ones who were, downgraded from ICU status and shipped to a stepdown to make room for more critical admissions, a few notes for the oncoming provider followed by walking rounds, viewing various stages of respiratory distress, IV pumps and vents in the hallway, the patients behind glass doors), and then a stop at the shredder for his own papers.

The process for leaving the unit was to leave as many germs behind as possible. He would take nothing with him but the intense memories, the truly unbelievable impression of the sick, of the virulence, of the threat. He approached the office, stopping to wash his hands again, bin the shoe covers, hand sanitise. Once in the office, he wiped down a small table, binned the plastic bag that had held his mobile, wiped that along with his name badge. The scrubs were next, right there by the laundry, the surgical hat along with, and though he was alone, he cared not a whit that he was in the open room. His locker next, wiping down the shoes that he bagged, stashing them. His own clothes felt like much of an improvement, his street shoes and jacket. He donned a new surgical mask - required while in the building, in public spaces for the general population now too - and his personal items, and left the ICU.

He was quite ready for the trip home, choosing to walk thereby minimising exposure and contamination, and the blocks ahead of him were also exhausting but he felt the best option. Baker Street would be welcome, even though it would immediately involve stripping just outside their door (sorry Mrs. H) and a prompt hot shower. Later, water and food. It occurred to him with wry humour that one of the nurses had joked about being unable to hydrate. There was no time for that, too inconvenient to remove the ever-present mask, and certainly no time for anything but a very quick visit to the loo. Now that he thought about it, he wasn't sure he'd even done that. Not once.

++

There was a tap at the bathroom door, and John knew he was languishing under the hot spray, didn't care. "Need anything?"

"No."

"Are you going to be much longer?"

He sighed, turned once more to let the hot water pound over his face, then his shoulders, and exhaled into the lovely, relaxing, refreshing steam. Rather than answer, he pressed off the taps. Sherlock had mostly closed the door, keeping his ear attuned to Rosie as he watched John tuck back the shower curtain, reach for his towel.

Unrushed, he considered John for a moment, and when he spoke, his words were quiet. "That bad?" It was more a statement and an observation than a question.

John ran the towel through his hair, briskly, enjoying the feel of skin open to air again. With a gentle rub, he dried his face, where the N95 had brushed and rubbed, leaving his nose, the areas over his cheeks slightly reddened still and oversensitive, a little pressured, but there were no open areas, no rash, like he'd seen on some of the providers. Not yet. His eyes met with Sherlock's and he brushed the towel over the rest of him, breathing in and enjoying the steam, the restorative shower, the promise of dinner shortly.

"Never mind," came the softly spoken, very serious words. "I can see that it was ..."

"Brutal," John finished for him. The shared moment, the compassion, the understanding, the camaraderie was good, grounding, centering. He finished with a smile as he wrapped the towel around him. "But it is very nice, very nice indeed, to be home."

From the hallway, they heard a chuckle, a giggle, the sound of one of Rosie's new favourite toys. "I should go," Sherlock worried, tapping at the door.

John nodded. "I'll be right there." The door was already closing, then Rosie's giggle again. John breathed deep again, feeling the tension but choosing this - home, his family, and the mindfulness of the evening in front of him. The smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it was a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> N95 - refers to the particulate mask used for tuberculosis and other airbourne diseases (COVID 19 included).
> 
> PAPR - powered air purifying respirator. It's a self-contained air pump with a filter that keeps clean air flowing under a hood (either a helmet type or a whole upper body type). It's suitable when the risk of droplet contamination is high, like intubating or bronching a patient.
> 
> All of the isolation gear is exhausting - and very important.
> 
> My unit provides what we call a "donner/doffer" who roams the unit making sure you have all your parts in the right place going in, and on the way out, to make sure you don't contaminate anything, to help with wiping down faceshields or eyewear, and to help keep everyone safe. Without this key role, one careless contamination and you could take down your entire staff.
> 
> ++
> 
> It's very stressful coming home, and as John mentioned, the emotional exhaustion is real. The knowledge that despite everything, by the time the patient is on the ventilator, the odds are very much stacked against survival, is just so sobering. And the isolation - protective gear as well as no family presence - is stressful. As much as he can, John is still going to social distance even at home, keeping the exposures to as low a risk as possible. Some providers are getting hotel rooms or staying somewhere else, or have sent their families somewhere else if that's reasonable.


	3. Hello Insomnia my old Friend

There was a brief moment, a few moments actually, of pleasant, languorous awakening. The sheets, sleepy warm and soft. The pillow, just in the right place, neck supported, oh so comfortable. Very dark outside, still early, the flat silent, a few stretches and John knew he'd drift off again. Heat from the mostly unclothed body next to him in the bed, the perfect distance away, close enough to feel radiant heat without being too warm. It was heavenly and sweet and relaxing ...

The switch flipped, subconscious to awareness, and reality descended in a wave of unpleasant anxiety. _Wham_.

Oh, that's right.

Pandemic. Shift yesterday in the ICU at the hospital full of emergent non-emergencies. Vent popped off despite the taped connection, desaturations, alarms. High heart rates, patients struggling to breathe, helping them understand the urgency of proning. They had a few proning beds in the ICU, but not enough, so a team came to help prone manually. John coordinated from the head of the bed, calling the details, giving instructions, like the crew leader on a longboat. It was labourious, helping the nurses along with the rest of the team get them positioned right, on their stomachs, float the abdomen, keep the curve of their backs somewhat normal, pillows double-stuffed under chest, pelvis, and under calves.

_This side roll the sheets up, this side, down. On my count, we shift toward the vent. Is there anyone who isn't ready? One, two, three ..._

Reassuring the patients that it was life-saving. Ventilator preventing. They all knew but didn't speak (much) of the futility of the ventilator. For every twenty patients they would intubate, only three of them - if they were lucky - would live to tell about it. _Yes, I'm sorry it's not comfortable, but you need to do at least a few hours like this._ He had watched the monitors - prone, oxygen saturations 92% and often higher than that. As soon as they would supinate, back down to the low eighties.

Damn this virus.

They all wore the same haunted, traumatised look in their eyes. _God please don't let me get this. God please don't let me take it home. God please..._

He heard snippets of conversations - verbalising fear, about dreams and nightmares, about insomnia. Wanting to know what fresh hell we were living in and working in. John watched, carefully, considering timing and relevance. Of when to intervene, when the time was right. There in the ICU, he knew his role - calm, supportive, encouraging, factual - to smile, nod, make all the right statements without being patronising. 'We'll get through this. We're all doing the best we know to do. You're doing a great job.' It was often a variant of, 'we're not doing this alone.'

Above their procedure masks and their social distancing, he would see, now and again, the eyes of one of the ICU nurses or aides tearing up. He could sense the few deep breaths, the set of the shoulders, the inner self-talk, the resolve, as whomever it was got their emotions under control again. More snippets, between staff, respiratory therapists, consultants in the unit, lamenting over the decisions, trying to stay away from family even at home, from the older parents they refused to go see, to the dearth of salon visits, the stripping outside their homes, the hot showers immediately upon entering, the shoe covers and work clothes and obsessive hand-washing.

They discussed zinc, vitamin C, plaquenil, azithromycin. If he never saw another chest X-ray with diffuse patchy bilateral infiltrates, he would be totally okay with that. The radiographic sentence of severity. Sometimes the patient looked symptomatic, and that was bad. Sometimes, the patient was compensating, tachypneic, but not overwhelmed yet. Somehow, that was worse, knowing it was coming, that the struggle was just around the bend.

A quiet voice from the pillow a short distance away interrupted his musings. "You okay?"

For a hot minute, John thought about lying. He thought about keeping Sherlock unburdened, about trying to spare him, about steeling himself to handle this on his own. "Mmm-hmm. I suppose."

"Liar."

He didn't laugh, not outright, but the short puffs of air as he silently snickered were telling. It was unusual to get away with much from his live-in, consulting detective partner. "Made a phone call yesterday," he began, slowly, and then paused as Sherlock tilted toward him, throwing down the duvet for climate control before gathering him close, tucking John's head up against his shoulder, drawing him in as they both liked. "It's hard, over the phone, explaining that despite everything we can do, the outcome might not be what we want." He kept the details deliberately vague, thinking to himself about the man not much older than they were, but with comorbidities and the patient, overweight. "So sick." Idly, Sherlock brushed his thumb over John's temple, his fingers splaying out against John's head - _I'm here, I'm here, I'm listening_. "Asked them if they understood. Explained about the likelihood of him dying, that there was little else we could offer. Asked them if they wanted CPR even as I tried to tell them it wouldn't work anyway."

"Medical futility." Sherlock uttered the phrase that cut to the heart of the issue. Survival in some cases, a possibility; in others, highly unlikely.

Again, he didn't give the specifics, the struggling, the fear, being alone. "She was going to call another family member, talk it over, call me back." He took a moment, shifted his knees to rest more comfortably over Sherlock's, to swallow. "Never got a chance, he kind of suddenly, lost heart rate. And of course we needed to code him, and the nurse, and the respiratory therapist, are at the door, gowning up, all the layers, trying to hurry without compromising of course, all of it is one hundred percent necessary. Masks, bonnets, gowns, double gloves, eye shields, and we're watching the monitor because we can see it from the desk."

"And you're running the code?"

John's quiet voice was soft, low, and reflective as he answered, "Yes, from the doorway. I can't specifically add anything by being at the bedside." In the dark room, there was comfort and connection in their embrace, and despite the way they were touching, John still felt cold. "And of course he's on his stomach." Sherlock nodded. "So there's a little anecdotal evidence about doing chest compressions while they're prone. In this case, it wouldn't have mattered either way. So we do a little, give a few meds. There's no rescue breathing because that involves taking him off the vent, aerosolising the virus. I had just picked up the phone to notify his wife when they told me she was already on the line. And of course we stopped."

"He didn't die alone."

"True, not exactly." He wriggled his neck about, exhaled, tried to let the tension in his neck, his shoulders dissipate. "They can't even come in and see him. It's terrible."

"You're only seeing a fraction of the patients infected, less than fifteen percent end up even hospitalised, and only what, like three percent of those end up intubated ..." They'd talked about the statistics, the cases in the country, in London specifically. They tracked, daily, the number of critical care beds, the number of patients on ventilators. Of critical care bed utilisation and ventilator capacity. It was a sore point with John, that the NHS'd ordered more vents, had them shipped in from places: ventilators are a tool, he would say in frustration, but they need to be in the hands of skilled providers. They are not, he had growled, plug and play. Get ventilators, he'd said to Mike Stamford the other day, but bring the nurses along with - one without the other is useless.

John tried to still his mind a bit, be patient, although part of him wanted to pull away in frustration, and he forced his words to be quiet, flat, and emotion-less. "I understand all that." It was why he heard from his co-workers that they didn't often share much at home. Unless you were actually looking at it, living it, shift in and shift out, it was hard to get your head around, the moral distress, the absolute horror of not only the disease but the situation - that the patients were alone and terrified, that the families were home, worried. That even though the statistics and the PPE and the procedures should protect them, the threat still niggled at all of them.

"It won't last forever." John could feel the way Sherlock's embrace changed, that it was as comforting as he knew to be, that he was making such efforts to help John, to refocus, to encourage. It was the same phrase he'd spoken to a few of the ICU staff just the day before.

"I know." The silence was awkward and stilted for a few minutes. Under John's ear, he could hear Sherlock's heart rate, knew he was wide awake, uncertain, scrambling for answers and explanations and how best to proceed. For all John's challenges and the difficult circumstance, it was just as hard in a different way for Sherlock, and John snuggled in again. "Thanks. I don't mean to worry you ..." The inhale, exaggerated, was followed by a slower, steadier exhale. John's hand slid quietly, softly, around Sherlock's ribs, tucking in around his waist. It was secure, a statement of belonging, the give and take of _I'm here, you're here, and we're okay._

The tension of the moment abated, and their skin connection was peaceful and intimate. Sherlock pressed his lips to John's temple. "Do you need," he began, his voice low, and he punctuated the sentence fragment with a slight tilt of his hip, "I mean, would you want ...?"

"No." John's answer was quick. In these times, his mind was too distracted and his body too ... well ... _uninterested_. "I appreciate the offer, but ..."

"Okay."

"You?"

"No. I'm fine."

"I still feel like maybe we should send Rosie off to Harry's, until this blows over." He hated the idea of it, but it was weighing on him, the idea that he could be putting any of his family at risk. "Or I could find a hotel, find somewhere else. Some of the docs are, and a few nurses have sent their kids off ..."

"We're okay. We're better together. And you're careful?" Against Sherlock's embrace, John nodded. "This works, then." John's eyes drifted closed as he felt Sherlock's lips press against his temple. It was a sweet gesture of comfort. Of affection. "Breathe. Rest if you can."

"Not likely."

"Then just enjoy. This is nice." There was another press against his head. "I am, anyway."

John couldn't stop the smirk, knew Sherlock could feel the silent smile against his shoulder. "What are you up to? Because this isn't necessarily your thing, snuggling."

"I don't mind it, and if it helps you ..."

"No.” Despite the hour, and the darkness, John could just tell, me knew that something was a bit too smooth. “You're ... Are you categorising my vital signs or something?"

"I don't know how you can be so suspicious, when all I'm doing is trying to comfort you."

"Sherlock."

There was a huff. "Oh, sod off. Yes, okay, I suppose I am. Your heart rate, I can feel through my ribs, and your respiratory rate, too, with chest rise. It's directly proportional to your REM cycle, and even awake, your eye movements seem to be proportional as well."

John sighed, maintaining his silence. Sleeping or resting was never easy when he was being studied.

Sherlock's arms tightened marginally. "And if you give me a few more minutes, just lay here, I can probably add another variable, something like number of sighs per minute ...?"

"Fine." John did chuckle then, and his mind began to imagine that first cup of tea that was eventually going to be his, but he kept still, willing his body to be heavy, to stay put, to relax. "One of us might as well be productive." He stretched again just a little, arched his back, letting his eyes drift closed once more. His mind was too active to sleep, but the companionship, the safe haven of their bed, was still quite satisfying.

By the time John did actually think he might begin to nod off, Sherlock was several minutes into his observations that juxtaposed respiratory rate, heart rate, eye movements, sighs, and the first twitches of myoclonus. All in all, Sherlock felt, not a bad beginning to the day.


	4. Participation is Mandatory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For maddiestj - thanks for the prompt.

Molly glanced around the mostly quiet pathology lab. It was eerie, knowing that death rates were skyrocketing but the department was slow. Cases that required postmortem examination were much less in number, bodies now double bagged, tagged COVID, and sent on to funeral directors without being examined other than the ID tag on the top. The NHS had determined that autopsy on a known or suspected COVID patient required special consent from a panel of experts. The document was very clear about risk reduction, and although Molly had done a few, she was finding the decreased volume somewhat unsettling. Although she had caught up on her backlog - or almost anyway. There was still plenty to do.

The surgical theatre was still going for oncologic cases, so there was still the tissue pathology to analyse, and she was expecting a few more samples and slides later that afternoon.

A tap at the door, and one of the registration clerks entered, masked of course. "I brought you a coffee. Have time?" Her eyes were bright and smiling as she entered.

Molly nodded. Although she was not unhappy alone, some company from time to time throughout the day was also a nice distraction.

"Things okay with you?" Molly asked. Her voice echoed a little in the break room and it was a little quiet and underused.

Her coffee-bearing friend nodded. "Mostly okay. Waiting to see how bad it will still get, for me anyway. My sister works in the ICU, you know?"

"I heard that," Molly said with a smile, now visible with the mask tucked down as they sat across the break room at least six feet apart, the coffee in their respective hands. "I hear it's awful there. She must be so busy." The hospital census was largely known, with elective admissions down and ICU beds taken by patients in various stages of the novel virus. Molly reminded herself from time to time that despite the patients who ended up in her mortuary, there were many many more who survived to discharge and went home. "Is your sister doing okay?"

"Mostly." With a nod, Molly's friend sipped her beverage, set it back down. "She was telling me yesterday, they do this daily huddle mid-afternoon, where they discuss the newer research, devise a plan, give an update on hospital supplies and pharmacy, share what is successful, give people a time to voice concerns."

Molly nodded, perfectly content to listen.

"So anyway, yesterday, one of the docs takes over the meeting at the very beginning. He starts off telling them they're doing a great job, that he is so grateful for their teamwork, their dedication. And then he makes them all stand up, six feet apart. It's mid-afternoon, and he has them dim the lights a little, and he starts off by having them do guided breathing for like a minute. Talking all through the inhale, giving directions in this calm voice, he's just ... counting, then to exhale. She said he left no room to argue, made everyone participate. And then, get this? He leads them through some stretching, reaching, some simple yoga positions. Apparently, he was really amazing, talking through it the whole time, relaxed. They did, I don't know, sounded like shoulders and neck, arms, legs, back and hip stretching. All interspersed with a few breathing manoeuvres."

"You're serious?!" Molly was a little perplexed at the thought. ICU nurses, she knew, were headstrong when they needed to be, feisty with little provocation, and relatively vocal if something wasn't to their liking. "And they went along with that?" Her smile and nod were followed by a breathed out phrase, "Impressive, that."

"Yes, and it sounds a little ... I dunno, barmy now, but she said it was amazing. That it lowered the stress levels, gave everyone a very nice break." Her chuckle was a little incredulous too. "Sounds like they ... _loved it._ Took all of maybe five or six minutes."

Molly considered the idea, of taking a few minutes at a busy nurses station, where stress levels run high on a good day (she knew they were astronomical now) and where getting a true break away from the patients is just not feasible. Having taken a few yoga and exercise classes in the past, she could well recall the whole-ness afterward, the way it was restorative in ways hard to quantify. "I love that idea. Are they going to do that regularly? Sounds ... smart." Her friend only shrugged. "Or more appropriately, _wise."_

"I hope they continue. My sister said it was the highlight of the day." They grinned at each other, knowing that perspective was everything in these trying times. "One of the other non-covid units got wind of it, asked if he would lead it for them too. He turned it down flat, said it was only for his unit right now."

"I can understand that, I guess. They carry a heavy burden." Molly recalled something then, and leaned forward. "I know one of the docs working in there now. Came on especially for this, before the surge hit with a vengeance. I wonder ... " She frowned, curious. "Do you know the name of the doc who was leading it?"

"John Watson."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a true happening a couple of weeks ago. Unforgettable.
> 
> Autopsy recommendations are determined in the US on a county or state level. And change pretty frequently. As to NHS recommendations, they are also in flux and a challenge to interpret. So squint if you must.


	5. Ahem

John was never one for making an abundance of body noises. He seldom cleared his throat, sniffled, or even chewed loudly. So when he made a few sounds in his throat, a couple of times in a row one evening while they were watching some documentary Sherlock was interested in, he glanced up apologetically to find Sherlock watching him.

Intently.

With a studious look, puzzling, deducing.

It was more than that: He was concerned.

"You okay?" he finally asked as John pretended to look at the telly remote.

"Does that mean, knock it off, you know that's annoying?"

Sherlock reached out a long arm, took the remote from him. He was a bit more intense than the situation warranted.

Although, John realised almost immediately, that wasn't entirely true. The concern these days, certainly not something that could be completely ignored.

"No. I restate the question, and you know how much I hate doing that. Are you okay?"

"Yes." John raised his chin a bit as he looked steadily back. As soon as he did it, he realised it was overcompensating.

"Oh?" Sherlock parried back. "So if you, for instance, had a sore throat or something, aching, congestion, you would be completely forthright and tell me?"

John looked down, wondering how best to answer. And in doing so, answered the rhetorical question Sherlock had asked him.

Sherlock leaned close, pressed the back of his hand to John's forehead, then over his ear, then into the side of his not-quite-all-buttoned up shirt collar. John pulled away abruptly when Sherlock's hand touched his neck. "My mum used to at least kiss the side of my head, when she was checking for fever." They met eyes, holding. "I don't have a fever."

"Oh?"

"I am required to check my own temp twice a day. There was no fever a few hours ago. I would know it." As with any healthcare provider caring for COVID 19 patients, John was indeed monitoring for symptoms and screened each time he arrived at the hospital. He particularly liked the question about coming in contact with patients diagnosed with the virus. There were secure emails sent whenever a patient tested positive, to all providers of care. It was yet another sobering thing that had been added to their to-do list, that they had to sign in when entering a room.

There was an actual phone call when a fellow staff member was diagnosed, all without names of course. Although they social distanced as best they could, the surgical masks were not 100%. Staff was particularly at risk at mealtimes or when close for extended periods of time, such as during procedures or report.

"It's unusual that you have been clearing your throat."

"It's not bad. Touch of ... I don't know. Probably aggravated because I'm wearing a mask - and an N95 much of the day - for my entire shift over there."

Sherlock tucked both hands back into his lap, but didn't move away. And didn't speak. His expression, soft, quiet, introspective, didn't change much, except that John watched him, saw the blinking, perhaps more frequently than usual. And he heard the subtext.

"Listen, I don't feel bad. My sense of smell is normal. I'm watching out for symptoms." Cautiously, he slid his hand along the inside of Sherlock's arm and brushed down toward his wrist, slowly, reassuringly to grasp his palm, squeeze once, and let go. "I've been totally careful, no slips, protected in each room for each patient. The throat is ... just unfortunate timing. Really. We're all a bit on edge, overthinking every little cough, sneeze, sniffle, or ... errant swallow. Seriously."

"I know. It's just ..."

John had another thought. "Are you feeling all right? No symptoms, fever, cough ... anything? Is that what this is about?" They had talked about the unfortunate increased risk of John’s job, and though they were careful, it was not risk free for any of them, actually. Now that there was actual, bonafide community spread, it was impossible to know where any of them might be in contact with infected droplets.

"No, I'm fine. It's just, like you said, I'm overthinking. Overanalysing." He snorted, then blew through pursed lips. "It's just, the faintest little twinge of anything, and you're ..." He shrugged, a small crooked smile. "It's hard not to immediately imagine the worst."

"We're okay." John consulted his mobile for the time, pressed the off button on the telly remote. "Come on, I think it's time."

"Time for what?" Sherlock's voice was low, a mite suspicious. "Really, _now_?"

"No, I mean, unless you want to." They had both been quietly aware that the current situation, the stress of the unknown, didn't exactly put either of them in the mood. It was very mutual, and perfectly okay. Bedtime cuddles were usually a bit tentative, very low key, no expectations - somehow they both just knew and were fine with it, this season, and like the virus, it was not forever. "No, just, for bed. You know, relax together, safe under the covers."

"Do you even listen to yourself?" Sherlock let John pull him to his feet anyway. "Next you'll be making comments about safety in numbers and circling the wagons."

"Me going to work doesn't let us do that, neither of those cliches, actually." He hesitated, though, after turning out the light, plummeting the sitting room into comfortable darkness, the hints of street lights that managed to sneak behind the drapes. "I just, it's hard to explain. Going to bed, escaping, it at least gives me the illusion that nothing can get us there."

"You do realise Rosie is very close to figuring out how to climb out of her cot." His brow raised slightly. "We're about to be even less safe in the bedroom."

"... and it does feel like going to bed is about the most normal thing we do."

"Shall I serenade your drivel with some sappy violin music?"

"Just stop." He chuckled. "Never mind, here I thought trying to explain myself was something you'd actually listen to."

"You know I tune out most everything you say."

"Obviously." Shaking his head, John headed down the hall, failing to take Sherlock's hand or even invite him along. "Bed. I'm ready. Sleep, and maybe sleeping in? I’m off tomorrow.”

“Rosie never cooperates with your day off.”

”Then we are wasting good sleeping time.”

The darkened room seemed to settle, calming them both, and they drew together, warm arms and breath and a chin tucked over an ear, the gentle slide of hair and an embrace and soft whispered lips on a temple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> True disclosure: had some brief, momentary panic after applying hand lotion in the break room and not smelling the typical hand lotion scent. (The vast majority of patients who go on to develop coronavirus have altered sense of smell and taste.). Recommendation going forward: please label _unscented hand lotion_ very clearly.


	6. I'm sorry, it's just not smart

Footsteps climbing the stairs were slow, predictable. Both of them realised it immediately, and knew action was going to be required. John stayed in the kitchen, across the room, still visible from the door. Sherlock got up, striding quickly to the door. Rosie, thankfully, was already in bed upstairs for her on-again, off-again, lucky this afternoon nap. Her falling asleep noises, chattering, had ceased a few minutes ago.

"Yoo hoo, boys?" There were a few taps on the door. "I have dessert for you, made this just this morning..."

Sherlock had whisked open the door and replaced the open doorway with a straight backed chair.

"What on earth is this about?" She had, fortunately, stopped in the doorway and was looking in as Sherlock took a few steps away, his hand still on the doorknob. "What is the meaning of this?"

John had risen to his feet, ready to interject if needed, but it was Sherlock who answered. "You can't come in, Mrs. Hudson. Sorry."

"You have barricaded me in the hallway?" For a moment, it appeared she was going to move the chair out of the way and come in, but then her frown of confusion gave way to a realisation. "Oh." She grinned, her sweet, tolerant, maternal smile at them both. "Well, pish, I'm not worried about that. Now get this chair out of the way and I'll come in and fix us all a cuppa to have alongside."

The men exchanged another look, wondering at how best to tell their wonderful definitely-not-housekeeper, friend, landlady, that until John was no longer seeing actively infected coronavirus patients, that they were going to have to stay away from each other.

In the silence, she must have realised it on her own and her expression went from somewhat teasing to pained. "You're serious?" Her gaze fell to John, who nodded, knowing his face was sad, knowing that he was disappointing her, knowing that it was for her own protection. "What about Rosie?"

"Her, neither. I'm so sorry." John's voice was somber, and he once again in his mind he heard the mantra, I-hate-this-virus, over and over. He'd said it, agreed with it, echoed it when someone else said it, and it couldn't be helped. That phrase, he spoke aloud, "It can't be helped, Mrs. H. I'm sorry. We've no choice, really."

"I can still bake for you?" she asked, wriggling the tin in her hands. "I mean, it's biscotti. Those apricot ones you liked?" This she directed at Sherlock, who turned away slightly, his mouth scowling. He hadn't thought the measures completely necessary, had resisted John's efforts to let Mrs. Hudson know about it before it got to this face-to-face encounter. Obviously he was still annoyed about it.

But John's wasn't about to give in, and so he spoke up, hoping to defuse things, lower the irritation, feeling a bit like he was all alone in his protectiveness. Despite the fact that he and Sherlock'd discussed it, agreed on it, it fell to him to be the enforcer. As usual, he realised. It had all been mindless drivel to Sherlock until John explained that the slightest possibility that he could bring home an illness that, although if Sherlock or Rosie got it from him it would be unpleasant, for Mrs. Hudson it was statistically likelier to cause real problems: then he'd finally given in. John knew Mrs. Hudson enjoyed providing for them, so he did answer her. "That's lovely, and yes, we so appreciate it."

"I was going to make that bread pudding later today or tomorrow?"

"Yes," Sherlock hissed through his teeth, resulting in glances from both John and Mrs. H, and he noticed, continued, "because all of life's problems can be solved through carbs and food, calories and cream."

His delivery was with enough attitude that John could do nothing else save chuckle, and at the noise, Sherlock's head pivoted to pin the glare on John. John leaned back in a little, not cowed in the least. "Yes, we humans do tend to feed our feelings." His proclamation was shortly followed by a quiet snicker from the woman in the doorway, and he wasn't done, "which is fine, by the way," and Mrs. Hudson smiled again, though Sherlock only huffed a few times before rolling his eyes and relaxing, glaring at the window as if it had done something personally affronting.

John did not get any closer, but with the slightly lightened mood, he felt that he could offer a diversion. "The nurses in the US have started calling the community outpouring of food, so generous and appreciated, but they're saying that it's contributing to their own Covid 19." Most days in the ICU, there were meals, snacks, deliveries of candy or small goodies brought in by security. It was, John knew, very generous. "It's caught on over here, the Covid 19."

Both Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock stared, blinking, blinking twice, non-reactionary.

"Covid 19. Nineteen pounds. You know, like the weight gain people get, like the Freshman Ten at university?" He chuckled, apparently mostly to himself. "Oh come on, it's clever."

"Not clever." Sherlock shook his head. "Not even especially cute." There was another soft snort. "Not to mention the wrong unit of measurement for us."

"Oh Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson chastised. "Be nice."

"I am not known for nice. John knows that, and so should you, after all this time."

"Sherlock," John groaned, looking apologetically at Mrs. Hudson, who was smiling fondly and shaking her head at the both of them.

Since he was closer to the door, closer to the tin of baked goodies, he indicated the chair and that Mrs. Hudson should put the container down. "And bread pudding tomorrow, that would be fine."

It was John and Mrs. Hudson's turn to look at him, and he balked a little, bristling defensively. "For Rosie, of course."

With great aplomb, Mrs. Hudson set the tin down, then raised her head with royal disdain - and a healthy teasing sparkle in her eyes and words. "Well, certainly not for you, directly, you insufferable tenant."

Three adult faces were sporting smirks at that, as Mrs. Hudson made her way back downstairs, muttering something about them having to hoover on their own since she'd been denied access to the flat.

Moments later, Sherlock was wiping biscotti crumbs from his chin and John was counting the remainder and wondering if Mrs. Hudson would be willing to bake a small batch for his unit at the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Protecting the vulnerable - definitely something John would find very important. It is still largely unknown how virulent an asymptomatic (or more technically, a _pre-symptomatic_ carrier can be and the exact mechanisms of asymptomatic transmission, but we do know that it happens before anyone starts feeling poorly.
> 
> Pounds, stone, kilograms - whatever. Obviously 19 stone would be a ridiculous weight gain so I compromised. Please don't let the detail distract you.
> 
> ++
> 
> [While my mum would never understand my fanfic involvement, there's a little post-script to this chapter: rest in peace mum, remember that you were so very loved even though I hadn't seen you for eight long weeks. And damn you, coronavirus: I despise you so much.]
> 
> ++
> 
> Be well, be safe. Thanks for reading.


	7. Lending a Hand

John doffed his mask for the final time that shift, placed it using gloved hands into the paper bag then into the bin for resterilisation. Hand gel, a scrub, a replacement of his procedure mask, and another final round of the ICU. It was his usual practice prior to turning toward home. It no longer struck him how many of the patients, on ventilators or not, were on their bellies - proned - as he did so. With no visitors, the curtains were almost always left open so they could see in and out of the glass, determine quickly if something was going on. The patients were most often at least covered in a sheet. But even the ones that weren't didn't even strike him as unusual.

He checked in with the nurses, some at the desk, others at patient bedsides still in the room - for those, he tapped on the door, made a questioning gesture, which was most often met with eye crinkles and a wave, and they'd worked together the past twelve hours for weeks now, that they had handled whatever they could, were in a predictable course of events. Mostly. Occasionally, one of the nurses stepped closer to the door to relay an end-of-shift request. The ones outside the rooms, wearing less PPE, he could simply ask if they wanted something. Some of the time, the patients were stable enough, awake enough, to wave, nod, or otherwise interact. Having to speak at high volume to be heard over the layers of masks, closed doors, and background noise - oxygen modalities, phone conversations, ventilators, IV pumps, high-flow, monitors, talking, and alarms of every type at various volumes - made for tired voices by the end of the shift.

Tired voices, tired bodies, tired spirits. Particularly, tired spirits. Some days, exhausted.

Still, the nurses acknowledged him and his attentiveness.

"I'm good, thanks."

"Oh, can you renew the norepi before you leave?"

"Nah, don't need anything."

"See you tomorrow?"

To this, John smiled, his eyes and entire body fatigued, but he nodded, finished handing off the unit to the next provider, and finished his final orders and notes before leaving the nurses station. He swapped out his covid scrubs for ones to wear home, topped it off with a clean mask, and headed toward the tube station. Although there had been a rare shift in the past that he'd walked the entire way home, these days he was too tired, too emotionally and physically wrung out, to do that.

He'd also learned to avoid drawing attention to himself, blending in. Personally, he'd had no troubles, but he'd heard of nurses or other providers being given a hard time wearing scrubs in public places.

The tube trip was uneventful, him keeping to a more remote corner of the car, ducking out and keeping his head low, and Baker Street was a welcoming sight indeed. Once inside the door, he rapped on Mrs. Hudson's door again, calling out a hello and waiting for the typical answer, the teasing response, the "Move it on along, Dr. Watson, and take your germs with you." He was grateful for the darker humour and understanding from their landlady.

Once inside the flat, he removed his mask, hung up his coat, stripped out of his scrubs. There was a covered laundry hamper to receive them, and he could hear Sherlock upstairs with Rosie as he made his way to the bathroom for his nightly home-from-work shower. While the water heated, he considered his reflection in the mirror under the rather harsh lighting.

Tired.

Baggy eyes.

Sad. Drawn.

Haunted. Most of the time, he could keep this under wraps, shove it down deep under his typical cool facade, his usual unruffleable demeanor. It still managed to poke through now and again.

He brushed a fingertip over his nose, feeling the raw, reddened, tender skin, which was not usually sensitive but over the past week definitely showing signs of abrasion, of prolonged pressure. In the mirror, his hands caught his gaze too, rough, red, dry from incessant washing, sanitising, scrubbing, and being encased in gloves so frequently throughout the day. His ears, sore and even more noticeable but usually hidden under his hair. Elastic straps from the constant wearing of the various procedure masks and N95s, faceshields, and caps had taken their toll. Some of the nurses had sewn buttons on their hats or headbands; one of them had gifted him with one in navy with a caduceus print on it. He'd left it in his locker for the following day, but not before noticing that it indeed had low profile buttons sewn on it. He actually was looking forward to see if it helped or not.

The shower today was brisk, efficient, quick enough that his skin barely had time to wrinkle. Other days, it was mindless standing under hot, steamy water, drifting his thoughts usually toward nothingness save the steady heat, warmth, beating water pressure, the days dirt, aches, and stress giving way to the simple beauty of being clean. Mesmerising and soothing.

His pyjamas donned, he wandered from the bathroom to be met with Rosie, rushing to get to him, tripping over her own feet - growing again, he knew - and falling forward in her haste and excitement to see him. Her hands barely came up in time to prevent a split lip. Again.

He scooped her up, nuzzling her neck, hoping to turn the screaming into giggles, a distraction of movement and touch and affection. But to no avail.

Sherlock rounded the corner from the kitchen, shaking his head. He looked fairly tired, himself, as he watched John's efforts, listened to him interact with his daughter. "Hey you," he crooned into Rosie's cheek, "it's okay. You're all right. Bit of a bump, but you're in one piece. No harm done."

Her wails grew louder.

Sherlock sighed, knowing Rosie was at the end of her tolerance, her resilience. To John, he spoke low. "No nap today. Exhausted."

It changed the direction of John's efforts. "She had dinner?" He managed to ask in between Rosie's bleating.

"Yes," Sherlock told him, but it was more by reading lips than by actual hearing.

"Let's get your milk and a book and your blanket," he murmured to Rosie. "And we'll go snuggle on the couch." The cries drifted down briefly by only a decibel or two, and John found it sweet that she was trying, attempting to regain control, wanting his comfort and his focus. Her hands, arms, legs clung, fingers nearly pinching his skin a little in their desperation.

For a brief second, John wished she still took a bottle, or sucked her thumb. The self-comforting strategies were helpful in times of distress, and he knew that Rosie, even though she didn't understand what was happening on a broader level, sensed that life was hard outside their walls and knew that things were different.

He was half-way through her book Good Night Moon before she stopped trying to get away from him. Over the next few pages, her sobs subsided a little, turning into those deep body shudders that indicated a particularly strong crying jag. His voice, already fatigued from needing to project at work, gratefully also lowered, growing more soothing, less energy required, and he hoped it would continue to calm her. Her head tucked sweetly under his chin, her shoulder nestled under his armpit, her thumb idly rubbing and brushing at the back of his arm. He doubted she was even aware of it, her seeking connection, her intrinsic means to touch and be part of him, trusting him to take care of her.

He'd opened the next book in her nightly repertoire, that of Good Night Gorilla, before she finally reached for her sippy cup of milk.

By the end, she was cooler and holding her favourite blanket.

Noise in the kitchen indicated that Sherlock was heating dinner, and as Rosie had quieted and settled enough for John to talk to her, Sherlock came to watch.

"And so I know you had a long day, waiting for me, playing and reading. I'll bet you worked on a puzzle, too, didn't you?" His own eyes were closed as he relaxed, talking with her, connecting with her, his voice soothing and calm. She nodded to his question and John smiled under his closed eyes. "I figured you had. Puzzles are fun and maybe tomorrow you can work on another one. Then the day after that I'll be home and we'll do all sorts of things together then, okay?"

Her nod was less emphatic as her body finally relaxed.

"Want me to take her up?" Sherlock asked, looking on as John looked up at him with appreciation for the offer, and his voice was low and melodical.

"No, I got her," John responded, shifting a little as he readied himself to get up while holding her, her milk, and the blanket wrapped about her fuzzy purple pyjamas. "Say good night, you two," and he leaned close to Sherlock, who lowered his head to press at Rosie's head. His arms encircled them all, a cord of three, a brief hug, his hands rubbing lightly across John's back to slide up toward his hair.

"Night," he breathed then to Rosie, into her neck, kissing her goodnight.

On John's return, the lights in the sitting room were dimmed, and two tapers on the table cast a soft yellow glow about the room. John looked over with a trace of surprise at the table setting, the candles. "Just dinner. It's not exciting."

"Yes it is, I can eat without worrying about staying six feet away from everyone and not be worried I'm going to be needed in a patient room before I even finish chewing. I can't tell you how many times ..." His voice trailed off, shrugging. Sherlock did know what his days could be like, that some were worse than others, but that they were all challenging.

"You want a glass?" Sherlock was holding a bottle of wine, offering.

John was sorely tempted. "Yeah, just a little I guess." He eased his tired body into the kitchen chair and smiled gratefully at the man across from him. "I'm so appreciative you know."

"I'm keeping a list." Sherlock's brow raised. "An itemised list."

"Of ...?"

"What you're going to owe me when this is all over."

John knew he was kidding, mostly, but he opted to play along. "Because keeping score is something that's so mature. Good idea." Their smiles flickered briefly, and Sherlock set the warmed up dinner in front of him. "For what, exactly, am I being charged?"

"Meal services, for one. Wear and tear on my person, for another. Rosie had the audacity to scratch me today." He lifted his chin to show a tiny, red raised mark on his neck. "Laundry. Child minding." He sat straighter and John took a bite while he waited. "Emotional wear and tear."

"Oh?"

"Yes, I miss you when you're gone so much." There was another teasing smirk, one that lasted a long time. "And you know, after the ninety-seventh day in a row of you working." John had been working going on six weeks now for four days on, three days off, usually. 

John didn't call him on the blatant lie directly. "Anything else?"

"Yes. Withholding sex."

"Noted." They were managing, now and again, but mostly, they were both tired and it was fine. John didn't press about that, either.

There was a soft, nasal snicker, and Sherlock paused between forkfuls. "Plus, loss of companionship with Mrs. Hudson."

"She still bakes for us."

"Hoovering, then. Straightening up." Since John's vocation involved direct contact with COVID 19 patients, he'd insisted on keeping their distance with Mrs. Hudson, for her own protection.

"Include that on the bill. I'll forward it to our chief financial officer over at the hospital. I'm sure they'll get right on that." A gleam in Sherlock's eye, John found mildly concerning, and he studied him a moment with a little more solemnity. "You may not submit it to the British Government either."

"Mycroft would love to see a line item for loss of physical companionship."

The chuckle was low and a little bit too amused, but John couldn't help it and knew, deep down, it was helpful to find humour wherever they could. "I'd be curious what kind of value you would assign all of those things, how you and I rate compared to, say, Mrs. Hudson hoovering the flat now and again."

"No," Sherlock mused, "you probably wouldn't be." 

The rest of the meal was light-hearted, and relatively quick. Sherlock motioned for John to remain seated, while he cleared and stacked the dishes in the sink, and led him quickly through their usual nighttime closing up routine. Lights out, a stop in the loo by turn for requisite tasks, and John was quite pleased to see fresh sheets and a clear path to the bed. Mostly, neither of them cared overmuch for strict order, though it did please John when things were more picked up than not.

He dimmed the light to just the small one on his side of the bed as they climbed in, and John felt more relaxed than he had in a while. Although he always reveled in the idea and concept and actual location of home, coming home, being home, for some reason tonight had been particularly nice. "So," he began, "you realise we can't if you're actually planning on listing some obscure reference to sex. You know, on that itemised bill."

"No, something else," Sherlock quipped, with some vague mystery about him as he reached for an item on the nightstand. He held up, after a moment, a small cylindrical container so John could read it.

La prairie. Hand lotion in a white tub, gray letters, silver cap.

"What is that?" he asked, stretching out a hand toward it, but Sherlock drew it back out of his reach.

"Give me your hand," Sherlock directed, opening it, setting the lid aside. "And get comfortable."

John settled back into the pillow, the angle of his back relatively in good body alignment, and he did in fact, hold out his hand so that Sherlock could take it, daub a generous amount of cream on it, and encase John's hand within both of his own. He set to work, unrushed, silent, and laser-focused.

John'd never had a hand massage, never a manicure, not in all his years, so he had little to compare it to, but the experience was ... nearly spiritual in nature, leaving him feeling remarkably taken care of, and feeling particularly cherished.

Sherlock began with a gentle, overall application of lotion, from his fingers, over his palm, up to his wrists. And then he began working individual areas, soothing and smoothing, fingers rubbing over calluses and lifelines and wrinkles, over sore knuckles and fingernails. He spent a long few moments working the pad of John's thumb, the webbing between his fingers, soothing and pressing, rubbing, moisturising, and hydrating. The lotion was faintly scented with lavender and marjoram, the texture fine and supple, just the right amount of glide, viscous and smooth. When he'd finished with one hand, he adjusted their positions in bed, with him doing most of the adjusting, to attend to John's other hand, giving it the identical, methodical, careful treatment.

Once both hands had been suitably attended to, Sherlock's movements slowed, and he lightly held John's hand, his thumb smoothing over its back, caressing slowly, gently. "What did you think?"

"Okay, amazing, actually." John's voice spoke to the fact that he had been indeed a little surprised. "If you'd asked me if I'd wanted that, I'd've --"

"I know. Which is why, you'll take note, that you were deliberately not asked."

"Very nice. That was -- where'd you learn to do that?"

"You can learn anything on YouTube, as you should be well aware." Neither spoke of the napkin blizzard of years previously.

John let his eyes flick to the container of hand cream. "Special order?"

There was a faint snicker. "I should think that was quite obvious."

"Expensive?"

"Exorbitant." Before John could comment further on that, Sherlock was speaking again. "And yes, managed to sneak another of Mycroft's credit card numbers."

"He'll be calling."

"Most definitely."

"Add it to that bill you're working on, then, too. Maybe someone'll not notice?"

"Trust me," Sherlock said, shifting and reaching a long arm behind him to turn out the lamp. "As much as this was, they'll notice."

"Thanks." The room plummeted into darkness, and there was some shifting of bodies and pillows and covers as they grew comfortable, sated, and sleepy. "I didn't realise how much I needed this tonight."

"Your days are rough."

"So are yours, to some degree."

"No, not really. I mean, Rosie's ... she's doing fine. You're the one seeing days that are ... just bad."

"Coming home is the bright spot. It's huge." John squeezed his hand, in which he still held Sherlock's, and realised they'd both benefited from the close encounter with the lotion. "I mean it. I wouldn't be able to offset the ... challenges at work without knowing I was coming home to you both."

"It's a season. It's not forever."

"I know."

"We'll get through this."

An exhale, a tucking of John's knee over Sherlock's, a comfortable, intimate embrace. Sleep, when it arrived, was sweet and dreamless.

Two men, different in every way, finding their paths in a rough time, creating new means of togetherness, to thrive. And it was good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, La Prairie hand cream sells for a ridiculous price. But Sherlock thinks John is worth it.


	8. Wishful Thinking

John knew he was frowning as he climbed the (endless, tiresome, never-ending) seventeen steps toward home.

The respite. The haven. The comfort and security of Rosie, of Sherlock. Of safety.

Sherlock was also frowning as he took note of the way John entered the flat, curious, puzzled, and on his feet in rapt attention.

"You're home a little bit earlier than usual."

John nodded, his smile sad and bittersweet, anxious and relieved at the same time. "Last patient discharged this afternoon. Took one off the vent this morning. There are now officially no more coronavirus patients at the hospital." He could have mentioned the mortality rates, the age associated complications, but didn’t. They’d talked about that ad nauseum since it began.

Silent, Sherlock didn't overtly answer, but he came closer to John, peering insightfully into his expression, his bearing, his gait. And that damned haunted look in his eyes that didn't really ever go too far away. "You did it, didn't you." More a statement, an observation rather than a seeking of confirmation.

The smile morphed into something a bit more concrete, not quite genuine but an echo of it. It was so gratifying that he didn't have to really explain much, that he'd already shared more than enough of this terrible COVID19 journey, that of course Sherlock knew. "Yes." He'd streamlined the process of coming home, the clothing being removed, shoes set aside, so that the dressing gown he wore presently wrapped around, snug, comfortable, warm. The shower ritual, the strip-tease by the doorway, although very necessary, had become tedious. "Yes I did."

++

There had been news coverage, a few reporters, onlookers, staff, doctors, administrators, families, and bystanders with time to spare. The last patient was wheeled out by wheelchair and still looked slightly dazed, a bit overwhelmed, and uncomfortable with the attention. The ripple of applause that had started in the hallway outside the room of the covid unit, the last occupied room of the stepdown covid unit, had continued, interrupted only in the elevator, and now that it was outside, it had grown, spread, and echoed. There was a car waiting, doors opening, bags stowed, and one of the nurses helped the patient stand and take a few simple steps into the waiting vehicle. There was still oxygen, a tank, tubing, and this was swapped over from hospital issue to privately obtained. It was impossible to hear the words exchanged, but a brief conversation, a nod, a thank you, perhaps, and the patient was driven away, out of sight.

The crowd dispersed, the ripples of applause dying off as the car disappeared down the road.

Staff returned into the building, except for a few who stood, staring off. The nurse pushed the empty wheelchair back slowly into the building, and the area had mostly emptied of personnel, people returning to their offices or units, going who-knew-where, leaving only a few in the hollow entryway.

One of the physicians was standing nearby, had never met the nurse, knew the patient when he'd been critically ill. He took a cautious step into her path and she halted briefly, but then they moved at a much slower pace across the small lobby.

From behind their masks, the words were quiet. "Are you all right?" he asked.

Her brow furrowed, deep. Pain etched in her eyes. "No." Her honesty was a little refreshing. "Are you?"

The pushback was actually welcome, and John's smile was a trace genuine. "No. None of us are, actually." He had given everything he'd had over the past nine weeks, fighting this damn disease, and although he hadn't met this nurse before, they had fought side by side regardless. 

Her short burst of laughter, still muffled from behind the mask, was rooted in frustration, in pain, and in bone-weary fatigue. "True."

"Thanks for all your hard work," John said quietly to her, and she slowed her steps, hands still on the frame of the wheelchair. "I don't know how you've managed."

"You too, really," she said, her voice thick. Over her mask, John could see her eyes welling up, and even with her personal demons of this disease, she was still reaching out, her viewpoint taking in more than just herself. He knew it was healthcare summed up: caring despite the cost.

He thought about clarifying that although he had indeed worked hard, carrying significant burdens of patient care and decisions in a time when there really weren't proven correct patient care paths, he understood that the nurses carried more of the emotional toll - longer times in rooms, more conversations with patients, families, providers, and had taken some of the losses personally. Loss came in so many forms: patients, fellow staff, family members, freedom, security, or socialisation.

In the hallway alcove quite close to where they'd entered was a bulletin board, newly constructed, entitled "Heroes Work Here." There were news clippings, positive statements, thank you notes, and some statistics about survival, patients liberated from the ventilator, and a couple of interview write ups featuring local providers and patients. At the far right of the board were photos of the few staff members who'd become sick with coronavirus, those who had succumbed.

John had not ventured into this particular hall, had not seen the board nor the photos, but understood immediately that the cost in truth was immeasurable.

"I worked with her for nine years."

"I'm sorry." John didn't recognise the photo of the nurse she was indicating, but she was smiling and vibrant. "Sorry for your loss."

"So unfair." Tears had already slid out from the eyes of the nurse, dripping into her mask, and John watched her struggle with a few deep breaths. He knew that to let it all out, on days like this, would be dangerous. Once the emotion would start, it was going to be difficult to contain. She whispered a very shaky, high-pitched thanks, and apologetically looked briefly at him again before pushing the chair in front of her, returning briskly to wherever she needed to be, escaping the board and the photos and him, and the site of where various paths crossed, the patient survived but her co-worker didn't.

++

The unit where John'd been working was in flux again. Rooms had been stripped, cleaned, sanitised, cleaned again, from top to bottom, equipment removed, wiped, sterilised, zapped with ultraviolet lights, and was shifting back to care for regular ICU patients. There were some patients already trickling in, filling from the cleanest areas, those that had been empty the longest. Nurses still wore masks but no longer had to don full PPE. There hadn't been a positive coronavirus test result in over fifteen days, and although they were still prepared if one should arrive, the threat was less, the area and community cases nearly non-existent. He rounded on the few patients that were there as he worked, tried to catch his breath, handled some situations, wrote admission orders on another patient, and functioned as he had been for his time there, an integral part of the team.

But deep down, he knew it was time.

He approached the director of medical staff mid-afternoon.

++

"I gave notice." John spoke the words out loud, calmly, matter-of-factly. He was confident. Speaking it aloud made for ripples deep inside. _Yes, good call, this is the right decision, it is indeed time._

"How much did you give them?"

Sherlock's question did not surprise John, in the least. John could feel the stress easing off him, rolling off in waves and in the settling of his breath as he exhaled. He could almost feel his spine straighten, his shoulders release a little of their perpetual tension, his mind realise that it was indeed time to move on, and that there was definitely an end in sight. "So you're good with it?"

"I'm relieved."

"You've been worried." John had known this, the questions, the grilling on how protected he was, on the supply of PPE. It wouldn’t have surprised him if Sherlock’d twisted Mycroft’s arm to ensure that the facility, or specifically John’s unit, had the best supply in London.

"I've been watching the toll it's taking on you." Their eyes met, held. "It was noble of you to do, get involved, help in a crisis. But now that it's mostly over, let them get back on their feet and you can move on." He shrugged and then summarised: "It's time."

"I gave them two weeks."

"Generous."

"It lets their regular staff take a bit more time, you know ... to heal and regroup."

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. “Feels good to have an end date.”

”Yes. Truth is, there were times, when the surge hit, that none of us thought it would end.”

Sherlock didn’t disagree with that. ”Shower.” For a moment, John nearly bristled at the command. It was defused with Sherlock’s smile. “Please. We have some celebrating to do after.”

”Agreed.” John’s agreement was followed by another small smile, one of hope and fondness. “I like that plan.”

“So hurry up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can only imagine what the end of this is going to look and feel like.
> 
> Counting the cost is going to be impossible.
> 
> Be safe. Carpe diem. Love on your family if you can, while you can.


	9. The Pause

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Processing, feels, closure ...
> 
> ... and the curtain falls.

"It’s a closed gathering, providers and partners. No press, no reporters, no social media."

"No grandstanding?" The twinkle in Sherlock's eye is hard to read - approving or disappointed.

John meets it and responds, "No." His expression is sad, hopeful, and introspective all at the same time. "Will you go with me?"

"If I must." He sighs as though it is a hardship.

"Look, if you don't --"

"Kidding. Of course I'll go with you."

"Mike asked me to say a few words."

Sherlock looks back. Smiles. "Of course." He doesn't need to speak out loud his thoughts, that Mike has yet again chosen well. John is the perfect choice for the occasion. For many reasons.

He considers that Mike's choices have had long-lasting ripples in all of their lives.

_Who'd want me for a flatmate?_

++

It is somber, tasteful. There are no garish decorations, no fanfare. Everything is just ... tasteful. The lighting is soft and the tables are casual, no seating assignments, no name tags. There is some easy listening background music, some cut flowers, balloons, a lot of people milling about. There is chatter and laughter interspersed, a gathering of professionals, friends, outside of the typical stressful work environment.

And especially, outside of the recent horrors of the bedside, it represents the facility response to the global medical situation as they provide an outlet and support to those who most definitely need it.

They are not all physically present.

There are names on the wall, some photos, a few tables with tasteful tributes, flowers, and frames to sign or write a memory on.

John hates that there were losses, that they lost some of their own (as did so many other hospitals, so many facilities) but he thoughtfully signs every frame even so - to think of not signing each one is just not on. Anathema. Unthinkably selfish. His penmanship, less than stellar, but legible, personal if he could, and with his name and brief credentials each time. _Thank you for your service_ , on one. _You will never be forgotten_ , on another. They will eventually be placed as a hallway memorial, the tribute wall entitled ‘Heroes’ is already selected.

++

Dinner begins promptly, unrushed but not leaving any time for people to become maudlin or for the evening to drag, plates are carried out with great efficiency, water at the tables, quick and professional servers. Mike Stamford opens the evening just as people are part-way into the entree. 

"Welcome. I want to say thank you to all of you for attending, for choosing to be here." He breathes, looks around, and his calm settles the room. "We all know why we're here, why we gather tonight. We sit in honour and in memory of a really ... dark and terrible time. Of unthinkable trauma. Of really challenging and difficult climates. And loss has touched us all, even if we personally knew none of those who didn't come out on the other side with us, it touches us because of our common bond, our commitment, our passion.

"And our calling. We all got extremely skilled at evaluating risk for screening, at teaching patients to self-prone." He frown just a little, "At reading those early chest xrays. At timing of intubation. Of proning vented patients with every kind of imaginable line. Of working smarter. Of drug names like remdesivir, actemra. Of when to begin ecmo. Of how to celebrate those early patients surviving, of being discharged.

"Of stopping to listen to the overhead tones when the song played, the Beatles of course, 'Here comes the sun.'" Mike hesitates a moment while about eleven seconds of the song is played, the perfect snippet - _smile's returning to their faces_ \- of the perfect length. His expression, his grin communicates far more than words - hopeful.

"There have been lessons, and there is hope.

"Listen carefully to that. There is _hope._

"Hope is what keeps us here, what deep down is why we have not thrown up our hands and said fuck it all --

Sideways, John casts a discreet glance at Sherlock expecting - and finding - the adorable sideways smirky smile of amusement. Those pale eyes flick over, meet John's dark ones, and the smile connects and deepens as they both then turn their attention back at Mike. Under the table, Sherlock slides his shoe over to just lightly rest against John's.

Mike pauses, holds his breath and then blinks in slow motion just after the word slips out. His grin is tolerant and ashamed at the same time and he worries at his lip for a moment. "Oops. My bad. See, this is why the no cameras, no press, no streaming, was a very good thing." A _dear me_ is slightly audible under his breath as he chastises himself, brushes a slightly trembling hand across his forehead, and a snicker ripples through the room, starting nervously low and then growing. 

Mike refocuses. "And why we are still doing what we do, perhaps in a different role and a different mindset.

"You all know we called in the cavalry when this began. We dug out some inactive members, recruited some. We teleconferenced like never before. We picked up time and shifts. We brushed off our skills. We reassigned, repurposed, and ...” he chuckles again, gesturing at his chest, “ ... recycled.

"We had some volunteers, those who could not sit idly by. Who jumped into the trenches, the frontline, the deep end of the pool.

"I've asked one of those to speak first, although initially he turned me down but I pressed hard for a yes." Mike smiles again, thoughtful. "When I asked him to open things, he asked that I keep the bar low, not set him up too much." With a wry smile, his brows raise with a little suspicious wriggle. "But I've been setting him up for years, right?" His smile is a little bit mischievous and he keeps speaking. "You'll just have to trust me that he is our perfect keynote opener. John?" Mike says nothing further and does not even wait for John to take the podium, the lectern behind the microphone.

Standing unobtrusively, John sips his water then spontaneously opts to bring his glass with him as he walks to the front of the room, touching the back of Sherlock's shoulder, squeezing lightly as he passes. His steps are steady as is his mind.

The water glass makes a dull sound as he sets it down, then stands casually at the front, his eyes are bright, hair carefully combed. "Thanks Mike.

"Any number of us could stand here tonight, we all have our stories. And we have all been traumatised in some ways, to some degree. As some of you, I served in Afghanistan and there have been comparisons. This is different. This has been our own trauma - longer, drawn out, more horrible on many facets. We have been through a trying time. And it still hurts." He looks about the room, sensing the truth reverberating among them. "It's raw." A few heads nod in response. "So, for starters," he begins without the expected ice-breaker, the hook of how he would normally have begun any sort of moment like this, "take a deep breath. Feel the air, the lifegiving oxygen, the lung expansion." He demonstrates, low keyed and calm as he breathes out. "Good. Now, again, and ... exhale."

Moments later, he looks about the audience with approval and continues. "It's good to see you all again, under better circumstances. Thank you for so many things. For being here tonight." He pauses, looks at Sherlock who is watching him with unmistakable fondness and unshakable belief. He looks at some of the other tables and recognises many: nurses, providers, extenders. Respiratory care. He sees some of the administrators, Mike. At a back table, he sees Molly and they share a special smile.

++

Molly had considered expanding her role, getting back in the trenches, into the frontline, working bedside again. But she hesitated long enough for another idea to cross her mind, planted and watered and tended and sprouted until finally it grew into something unmistakable. And more suited to her - that of an unsung, background worker, an unseen force to be reckoned with. And sneaky to boot.

And it was _beautiful._

And only known by a few, including one John Watson, who had managed to unexpectedly catch her, put the pieces together, and then guard her secret as carefully as he'd ever guarded any other secret.

He'd stopped in one day to simply say hello during one of the mental health breaks, late in one of his shifts, and most of the staff had already gone. But the light had been on, so he'd thought a quick visit. A brief respite from the stresses of the Covid Units, on this day, a careful stroll out of the Covid ICU, using all precautions, the protective shoe covers left in the unit, his white coat one that would be sacrificed at the end, one that he was careful not to touch or wear anywhere out of the building.

"Molly?"

He could hear shuffling, moving about, and some soft music in one of the almost never-used mortuary back rooms, a large clean work room, a conference table with unmatching chairs, piecemeal of a department. "I'll be right out!" her answer came quickly. Later he would realise that it held a cautionary directive that she wanted him to wait there and not come further into her department to find her.

But he'd missed it and entered the room to find something of a surprise. Inside, laid out across the conference room table, were large bins, decoratively wrapped. On the front, each of the Covid Units were clearly and professionally printed in bright colours. Across the top edge, the simple words, 'THANK YOU!' Inside were small gifts, hand lotions, water bottles, socks, trinkets, notecards, chapsticks, and in one, an assortment of various leggings. Everything was individually wrapped in original packing. Behind each tagged bin were other boxes: food, snacks, gift cards, beverages, crackers, cookies. On the far wall, a list of hot meals, cold treats, baked goods that listed the donor, target unit, as well as date and time of delivery. At first blush, there were two weeks at least represented there. Molly's eyes were wide as she looked back at him. Perhaps it was the clandestine nature of what she was doing or the look of concern, but John connected the dots immediately and gestured reassuringly.

"I wanted to do something for the staff."

"It's amazing. Brilliant." Their eyes met, knowing that John usually saved those terms for Sherlock, and they both understood exactly how much that particular compliment meant to them both.

"You can't tell."

"I would never. Your secret is safe."

"Thanks."

John sighed, smiled, and then without a word, nodded at her. What he wanted, though, was to hug her for the effort.

At his silence, she frowned just a little and worried at the corner of her lip and as she did so, she realised that she was unmasked although John was wearing his. She remedied quickly, then glanced at the tubs again. "You ... don't think it's a good idea?"

"No, I love it." He looked around a bit more, spying boxes and crates of handmade surgical hats, of headbands with buttons, and at the assorted ways they were already marked for the nurses stations. "This is a massive undertaking."

"One of the admins is helping, soliciting and recruiting, scheduling the meal deliveries and such." Quickly, she explained that she'd considered a different role but that this seemed more suited to her, something she really wanted to tackle. Something that would lift their spirits, caring for caregivers. "So she's arranging much of it and we're making sure everything is divided up for all shifts, that it's as equitable and fair as we can manage." She cast a careful eye at the room, smiling. “There’s several weeks already taken, and more on the way.”

”It’s perfect.”

At his reassurance of her efforts, of the compassion and caring activity, that the nurses and providers indeed were going to feel special and loved, she relaxed a bit and showed him some of the more unusual donations. At one point, she reached into the box of headgear, and handed something out to him. "I actually thought of you for this one, if you want it?"

He chuckled, reaching out for it. "I'd be honoured." 

It was a surgical headpiece, a fabric cap that tied at the nape of the neck. The cloth, skull and crossbones in a very discreet and somehow tasteful pattern. He toyed with asking for a second for Sherlock but didn't, knowing that he would never in a million years wear something that had the potential to muss his hair. His glorious hair, he admitted to himself as Molly cautioned him, "Just don't wear it until after tomorrow. That's the first donation, going up first thing in the morning."

++

Molly's smile from the back table reminds him of all those who had come together, gathering here, to work so hard for so long. Under terrible, tragic, and dangerous conditions. Who rose above, stepped out, nailed it.

"Thank you seems such an inadequate phrase. But it must be said: thank you, each of you, for answering the call, for all the ..." and surprisingly his voice breaks, much to his shock. The emotion of the moment, the poignancy of why they are gathered threatens momentarily to overwhelm, and he bites at his tongue, inhales, steels his resolve, " ... for all the care rendered in this unprecedented time. For doing really unimaginable things just as Mike already said, in really difficult circumstances."

He picks up the nearby remote, nods at the projector screen which flickers to life, where there are totals. Total worldwide cases. Totals in the UK.

He nods again, clicks the remote in his hand, and there are a few photos. Nearly unrecognisable staff in the ICU, fully donned in PPE. One photo, carefully taken with great protectiveness, of the IV pumps outside the doors, of the ventilator panel, of the blurry, anonymous, unrecognisable patient with lines, wires, pressure lines, tubes, lying proned on a bed under a sheet. He presses the remote again, and there is another photo, this one much more poignant, of a solo staff member taken from the back, surgical cap covering hair, the back of the scrubs giving anonymity, standing near the hospital entrance. The despair and fatigue is somehow fully communicated in the set of the shoulder and the solemnity of the pose. There is a vacant view in front, a mostly deserted street and a palette of gray that unfolds. John remembers the split-second moment when he was compelled to take the photo then approach the nurse, concerned. He doesn't share any of the story nor the way social distancing rules went out the window as she cried over the despair and the loss of one patient compounded by the loss in her own family, the seemingly never-ending patients. They'd talked about staff getting sick but he doesn't mention that here either. He recalls showing her the photo and requesting permission to use it, to safeguard all the details, and only proceeds when she agrees that it truly could have been any one of them in their more honest moments, and that although she is faceless, nameless, she will never forget the kindness of human touch, the way he'd cared, nor the way that connection _saved_ her.

In the end, he actually says absolutely not one word about this photo. Commentary is completely unnecessary.

A few seconds, lingering, waiting, then he nods again, forwards another slide, more data. Totals in their hospital. Trends of new cases, community and facility spread, he highlights quickly and tells the story without getting bogged down. He doesn't read anything on the slides verbatim, but highlights their survival rates, their extubation rates, their length of stay, and their days since the last positive coronavirus patient. They are all well aware that for healthcare all over the world, there is a _before_ and an _after_ , the line in the sand of coronavirus, the distinction of COVID19, of the way each hospital prepared for and felt the surge, and then recovered from it, that will never again go away. He clicks one last time, ends on the photo someone had taken of the hospital, the bright yellow lettering signs that someone had done, "Heroes Work Here." It is a fitting final slide, and he leaves it up. The photo is not distracting but symbolises the crux of what they are doing, their commonality, their bond.

"The slides don't really tell the full story, though, do they?" He takes the mic, pulls it out of the holder, moves closer to the attendees to perch on the edge of the table up front. It is an unplanned movement but seems necessary, intimate, more personal. His words are slow, kind, and spoken gently. "I wonder, by show of hands, how many of you lost a family member, to this ... virus?" He glances about, sees a smattering of hands. "How about units represented, where we lost one of our own?" Clusters of people have hands raised, where units sit together, and the moment is chilling. Too many tables. "Thank you for that. Remember where we started, Mike's words, focusing on hope, and just ... together, we will take a deep breath."

After a moment passes again, he smiles sadly but with appreciation. "Can we all just take a moment, maybe a minute, to pause. To set aside time, right now, to honour the lives represented here in this room? To honour family members who have worried along with us and about us. All of you," he says quietly, meaningfully, "all of us, heroes." He waits briefly, glancing about, letting the word become real and resolute and true. "And to honour those who aren't here. They each were someone. Someone who loved and was loved. Someone who mattered and who deserves to be remembered. So pause with me, just one minute, to remember." With that, he stops talking and the room descends into utter quietness. He knows time passes askew, and to assure the proper length, he counts the seconds off in his mind. The room is eerily, heavily silent. A few tissues are retrieved, distributed, used, and pocketed. From the front of the room, John continues to be unrushed, calm, sensing the moments of the room, making eye contact and feeling the tension, the energy, the stress palpably fall and settle. It was empowering and necessary and human. Out of the tranquility, he concludes, "For so many reasons," he says with kindness and a lump in his throat making his words even more sincere, "I can only close with two very sincere and woefully inadequate words: Thank you." He stares right at Sherlock as he says these then cuts to Molly, a few of the other tables of recognisable friends.

There is applause after a moment, during which time John finds his seat and Mike comes back to the front of the room to introduce the next person, knowing even as he did so that it really wasn't necessary. The evening could end right there, complete in a sense, mission accomplished, exactly what they'd set out to do. It was already a rousing success.

++

From the side of the lobby, Sherlock sips at his glass of ice water as he watches John. There is accolade after accolade, persons who wanted to say a face-to-face thanks, share a memory, or simply approach only to have tears well up - _tedious_ he thought but knew better than to speak audibly, ever, about the perils of sentiment. Now and again, John looks over to find him searching, smile slightly in appreciation, in thanks, in gratitude for his presence. He'd known all along that John was going to be the shining star of the evening.

Movement at his elbow, and a small voice, quiet, low. "You okay?"

It is Molly. His chin lifts a bit. "Of course."

Molly looks up at him and sees. "This has not just been hard on providers, you know."

He lets an eye narrow in challenge, stares back, harder and harsher than necessary.

"Oh stop it. I'm not afraid of you." Her brow raises and she tilts her head. "Hard on families, too." Her eye contact is confident and direct. "Watching from the sidelines, being powerless, is also worrisome."

His slow blink, his nod, let her know that she is heard, but overall Sherlock deflects. And they both know it, as he abruptly changes the subject. "Your presence here, quite appropriate. It's somehow fitting that no one else in this room has the slightest inclination of how hard you worked and how crucial your role was to their good mental health." Molly tries to keep the surprise from her face, thinks about shushing him, but he is discreetly hushed. "Of course he told me. Well, I deduced most of it, naturally. But I think you know I can keep a secret."

"It was nothing, really."

"No, it wasn't."

"A small token way to stay involved, feel like I was helping."

"Front line workers need a lot of encouraging people behind them." Sherlock faces her directly and stares right into her sweet face. "So don't think for a moment that your efforts didn't matter."

"Front line workers also needed people at home." From partway across the room, John's laugh pierces their conversation, where he is interacting fondly with a few Sherlock knows worked in one of the ICUs, and they are finally relaxed as they chat with each other, swapping war stories and recollections, toasting that they have made it through some of the crisis. The haunted look will carry on for a while, they all know, but this night, this get-together, has been helpful. "You were that for him." Molly smiles again, holds up her glass toward Sherlock's, and the clink is quiet between them. "To good health."

"And never again."

Another click, caught this time by John, who grins over, raises his own glass to join in the toast from the distance away.

Three smiles, shared vision, each vitally important.

++

From another location in London, Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson are side-by-side on the couch in 221B as they watch the secure feed streaming over Mycroft's personal laptop, and as Rosie sleeps blissfully upstairs, they click their own glasses.

"To good health," she says to him.

He quietly responds, “Never again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Pause is a real thing, begun by Jonathan Bartels in an emergency room setting in 2009 as a response to processing an unsuccessful cardiac arrest. The verbiage can go something like this: “Could we take a moment just to Pause and honor this person in the bed. This was someone who was alive and now has passed away. They were someone who loved and was loved. They were someone’s friend and family member. In our own way and in silence let us stand and take a moment to honor both this person in the bed and all the valiant efforts that were made on their behalf.” [ There is a nice article about the concept.](https://thepause.me/2015/10/01/about-the-medical-pause/)
> 
> I thought it was a good idea, something that John would have been very good at incorporating.
> 
> ++
> 
> Dedicated to the memory of fallen fellow healthcare workers. I hate this virus. 
> 
> I also hate the hate that seems to rise to the surface and divide a community, a nation, a world.
> 
> I'm so over it all.
> 
> Thanks for reading. 
> 
> The rest of the evening, on a happier note, would have included measures that will change going forward, vaccine plans, further surge and spike preparedness, and probably a tasteful request for research volunteers or donations. It also would have included a return of our favourite pair to Baker Street to find only Mrs. Hudson awaiting their arrival, handing them tea and biscuits before going back downstairs. It would entail a hug of celebratory success, of a job well done, and then pyjamas, checking on sleeping Rosie, forehead kisses, and sleepy cuddles under a comfortable duvet. In typical fashion, Sherlock's toes would have been cool only for the few moments necessary to warm them up on John's legs.
> 
> ++
> 
> Be safe. Know - and revel in the fact - that you are loved.


	10. Memory Box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For emilycare.
> 
> Thank you for seeing it. For getting it. For _understanding._

Speedy's in the morning was crowded. For this reason, on those rare moments when both John and Sherlock ventured out to get a cup outside of their flat, it was usually off-peak. John's just restarting surgery hours were still rather limited (since his services were only temporary and now complete, in the Covid Unit at Barts), cases for Greg were at a completely understandable and welcome lull, and it was (of course, naturally, _raining_. So taking Rosie in her push-chair to the park was just not on. But Speedy's had a booth in which Rosie could sit and play while the men sipped at coffee. Or tea. And often, shared something baked between the three of them.

Today's outing was also encouraged - mandated, in fact - by them running out of coffee.

They'd just settled in, Rosie stacking small toy cubes that John'd brought, both of them appreciating being in a carefully ordained social distance retail gathering as opposed to staying home for a change. Well, that and the requisite morning caffeine.

Both looked up as they heard a quiet, tentative voice, "John?" and then footsteps as someone approached their table. "I thought that looked like you." Her face was very familiar and she raised one hand to cover her mouth and nose in place of where her mask had been, followed by a faint chuckle at the reference. "Well, from here up anyway."

John recognised her immediately, one of the nurses he'd worked alongside the past few months, scrambled for her name. "Oh, yeah. Hello Carrie."

"I don't mean to interrupt, or ..."

"No, you're not. Not at all," John assured her. In other times, he might have felt Sherlock's not-always-discreet kick under the table or a nudge or a frustrated sigh. But there was no reaction other than a slightly raised eyebrow as Sherlock looked up at the woman who'd approached. John continued. "My daughter, Rosie. Partner, Sherlock Holmes." John introduced them quickly, "Sherlock this is Carrie, one of the ICU nurses."

They exchanged polite hellos, and John offered for her to join them. She slid into the table across the aisle from them, keeping a bit of a distance away. "Pardon me if I don't get too close."

"No worries," John said, then, "And you'll pardon us all for not shaking hands." They exchanged smiles again.

"You're not still there, right?" Her long hair was still pulled back, and John thought he could still see fatigue, deep and set-in, around her eyes as she spoke. "Haven't seen you lately."

"No, finished up about two weeks after the last patient was discharged."

"Right, the day the press came." John well remembered the fanfare and celebration as the last and final Covid19 patient was discharged and the peace that had come with the hospital being coronavirus free after so many months. He was prepared to comment on that until he glanced over at Carrie's words, her inflection. Carrie's smile had grown cloudy, her visage more somber. John's head angled slightly, trying to read her nonverbal cues, and Sherlock's attention had been grabbed as they both considered the profound and a little surprising change in her demeanor.

The men exchanged a look, one of those curious glances between people when trying to suss out what to say, how much to ask, particularly given the setting and the fact that they really didn't know each other well. John went with a more professional, provider mode, however, and relaxed back into the bench. "That was a hard day for you." Not quite a question, but safe, and enough of an opening, if she chose.

Her eyes raised to look at him, and were bright with emotion and perhaps extra moisture.

He reassured her quickly. "You don't have to say anything, if you don't want to." With a small frown, her eyes flicked to Sherlock who was just looking back, watching, silent. John smiled at that, at her obvious concern. "It's okay. _He's_ okay. He's heard it all."

"And then some." Sherlock's words were bordering on amused, lightening things a bit. "If you're going to talk blood and guts, that's fine," Sherlock said, his speech rapid and rather non-inflammatory (for what he was capable of, John knew, this was _benign_ ). "Those other body fluids, no thank you."

The resultant chuckle did much to lower the tension, the awkwardness. "No worries," she grinned a bit then, saw a distraction, and took it. "How old is your daughter?"

"Two. Right, Rosie?" John said, handing her a strip of the pastry that they were all sharing. Her nod was big and she showed two fingers. "Want this?"

"Thank you," Rosie answered sweetly, and then proceeded to cram the whole piece into her mouth.

"She's adorable." Carrie glanced at the three of them, then seemed to study John's face a moment. "She has your eyes, John."

"Now if only we can teach her to eat properly," Sherlock muttered.

"And swear less than I do," John added, and Sherlock could do nothing but nod, his eyes rolling at the improbability of that monumental task.

With an expectant gesture, John turned back to Carrie, and she very hesitantly and very reluctantly seemed that the question he'd asked was still on the table. "That day," she began, shaking her head sadly, "everyone celebrating, while inside, I had just ..." Her eyes got brighter. "The second to the last patient." She took a tremulous breath. "Sorry, some days I just ..." and she gestured helplessly, her smile somewhere between embarrassed and resigned, "... I just live _right there_." She gestured at about eye level, emotions riding high on her face.

"Understandable. A dark time. So, yeah, that patient. You were his nurse?" John recalled watching the crowd, waving, clapping. He recalled the photo in the hallway, the conversation with one of the nurses. He well remembered that being the day he'd given notice. He remembered coming home that day, telling Sherlock about the final discharge and the patient who'd been removed from the vent, who had died comfortably, off life-support. She nodded, the breath she took deep, the exhale, still shaky. "I'm sorry. Those events, no matter what, are hard."

Sherlock smirked at the incompatible extremes, dying-living, black and white. "Particularly while everyone else is high-fiving and waving balloons or some such idiocy." Sherlock's perception, his expression, his tone, were all spot on. "Cheering."

"We lost a lot, I know. And I had other patients, on my many shifts. Some did great, went home. But not all, of course. Jack was ... special I guess." Shifting in the chair, she watched Rosie for a few moments. "He fought so hard. Up until the end."

She shared briefly, carefully, how she'd spoken so frequently with his wife on the phone, how they'd managed to FaceTime now and then but that his wife'd hated seeing him that way, the tubes, the frustration, the process. How organs began to shut down, how the oxygenation never really improved. Carrie'd learned that they had been LSO season ticket holders, loved the symphony, and she'd played it for him regularly in his isolated hospital room, when she could. There had been more complications, and difficult conversations, documenting two steps forward and then three steps back. Impending kidney failure. Pulmonary fibrosis. That final day, the physician had presented options - terminal extubation or tracheostomy. Carrie mentioned how conflicted his wife had been and how some of the comments had gone: that the decision was tearing her up, that her final act of love, would be to help him to die well. He had never wanted long-term life support measures.

Carrie's words were calm, quiet, and still a little apologetic, but all of them knew that John opening the door, giving permission, had started it and they listened quietly as the tale continued. "The bitch of it all, she couldn't be with him. So I held the phone out for her to say ..." Her voice broke, and in the space, Rosie found John's spoon, tapped it twice on the table and then flung it, and Carrie nearly bobbled her coffee as she made a mid-air snatch as it launched off the edge. The action allowed her a moment to catch her breath and calm herself. "... to say goodbye. But it was me holding his hand, not her." She didn't describe the actual terminal extubation or the sedation she'd given, the tubes she'd removed to allow him a more natural, peaceful drifting off.

"Terrible," Sherlock breathed, sympathetic.

John leaned forward, touching her lightly on the hand, just once, briefly. "I'm sorry." Although he'd certainly been present for multiple deaths - in his lifetime, career, army, and the more recent pandemic - it never ceased to impress and amaze him at the humanity, the moving compassion of so many nurses at the end of life. The physician role, very different, more removed, giving orders rather than walking alongside the process.

Her smile was bittersweet, genuine. "Thanks. It was ..." she let the sentence trail off unfinished, the furrow in her brow making words like _awful, nightmare, terrible, horrifying_ unnecessary, shrugged again and let her next breath be calming. Settling. "She called me, his wife did, a few hours later, to say thanks again. And how comforting it was, how much she appreciated ... that she knew I was his nurse, working that day." The smile on her face then would have been hard to qualify - sad, puzzled, incredulous - "I couldn't even barely answer, I was in tears ... myself ..."

With a confident voice and blue eyes that sparkled back at her, affirming, John spoke up. "I'm glad you were his nurse too. It was fitting."

"How long does someone breathe, after the tube comes out?" Sherlock asked, not unkindly. His question was meant to be a bit refocusing. And curious as well.

John figured the question was more tame than it could have been. "Depends. Someone sick as he was, probably not too long." He gestured a bit toward Carrie, if she wanted to clarify.

"He never really woke up. Little morphine. He breathed about twenty minutes or so, all of it comfortable. I was so glad he was my only patient. I just stayed in there with him, reassured him that he was very loved, talked his ear off the whole time." Her expression was a little more hopeful, then, searching for a means out of the darkness. "He was probably glad to finally cross over, just to get away from me."

"I doubt that," John chided her lightly.

"I didn't mean to hijack your morning, here," she gestured again at their table, at Rosie's tower of blocks. "And I didn't mean to imply that I wasn't grateful that the final patient left the hospital that day either."

"But that's not what you remember about that day, we get it. It's fine."

Her smile was sweet then, knowing that they meant it and that they did understand. "Unforgettable."

"For a bunch of you."

"A bunch of _us._ " Carrie glanced between them again. "It affected us all, didn't it?" She looked harder at Sherlock then. "You too, probably almost as much."

"True." He agreed with her, and most assuredly could have elaborated, the worry, the stress, the way he'd become more of a rock for John, supportive in ways he'd never really paid attention to previously. Things had changed for them in their little world. For everyone. His silence, though, was still and understanding too.

Moments later, more customers came in, their tea and coffee emptied, Rosie got a little restless, and they exchanged more bland pleasantries, a quick farewell, and parted ways.

++

A few days later, John awoke to an empty flat, Rosie still asleep, Sherlock out doing who-knew-what, a scribbled note that he'd be back later. He reveled in the stillness, the tranquility of the flat, the serenity of a few moments with a cup of tea before Rosie would get up or Sherlock returned. Next to his spot at the table, he found the newspaper folded open to the editorial page, a letter circled and waiting for him to read. The entire spread was a special section, completely filled up with thank you notes to people or businesses, expressing appreciation and attempting to highlight the positives, the hope, the good life lessons.

To the editor. And to the staff at Barts.

I am writing as a new widow, one of the many who lost family during this terrible pandemic. My husband Jack was in the hospital for the final weeks of his life, battling this virus. I needed to share not only about the situation, the horror of it, but the beacons of light, of hope, of such caring healthcare heroes. I will forever miss my husband and forever yearn for things to have been different. I know our situation is not unique, but it is still my story, and I couldn't not write this so that others may take heart. Not to get discouraged. And to say thanks: there are good people in the world.

He had many doctors and awesome nurses, one of which cared for him when he died. While I was devastated not to be there, I knew she was taking amazing care of him.

I didn't realise that she was also taking very good care of me until about a week afterward, when I was feeling so alone and sad and discouraged, a card came in the mail. In it, a handwritten note from the nurse, telling me that she too was so sorry I wasn't there with Jack during his final moments, that it was an honour and a privilege to hold his hand. She included a lock of hair, tied in a small ribbon. I had always loved his hair, the thick gray of it. Anyway, I digress. The note was so personal, mentioned our phone calls, how hard he fought. It mentioned that he was listening to symphonic music as she held his hand until he'd drifted off. It included a rhythm strip, of his heart beating. It had been printed during the very moments while I was talking to him on the phone to say goodbye, and it was indeed, time stamped while she was holding the phone up to him, while I was telling him I love you and see you later. Across the top of the rhythm strip they wrote, "To live in the hearts we leave behind is not to die."

She'd inked his fingerprints and made a little heart motif on the notecard. It was like getting one last, enduring hug.

I have framed every part of it, and I will treasure this forever.

So during this dark time, as we recover and move forward, look for the helpers. And say thank you along the way. Thank you Carrie from the bottom of my still-beating and somewhat broken heart.

I loved you, Jack. And I always will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes, the dreaded box of notecards, small ziplock bags, scissors, yarn, sample sentiments, inkpad, and envelopes. I can only trust that it is a nice memento for families. [I would have _loved_ to have been given one after my beloved mom passed].
> 
> ++
> 
> I can't wait to put this season behind all of us. Thanks for following and reading what is actually a really tragic recitation of true and based-on-true events. Hugs. The support of everyone who read and commented (and virtually showed such amazing compassion) has been so uplifting.
> 
> ++
> 
> These are the last coronavirus words for me. I'm done with it and just waiting for our new healthcare normal. This final piece is in memory of G. Rest in peace and fly high, my friend. We will take care of J.


	11. A Rousing Send-Off

"John?"

He turned from the computer, where he'd been entering orders there in the Covid ICU. "Yes?" Ashley, one of the nurses, had addressed him, and there was a hopeful tone to her voice.

"Tim's going home today."

"Right, I know. Awesome news."

"On oxygen, but still. He looks great."

John could see in Ashley's face how needed it was to celebrate these small victories, the discharges, those who recovered. And he understood it - and needed it too. "He's all set, right? You don't need anything further?" He was fairly certain all the discharge orders were written, the coordination of oxygen supplies, of home health visitors. In these non-visitor days of the hospital, even coordinating things like a ride home from the hospital required good communication. In this case, as the patient was oxygen dependent, the transport would be by ambulance.

"No. But if you're here, it's always a good send-off. Three o’clock. We line the halls, clap as they go out."

He glanced at his watch. He was hopeful to finish patient rounds, stomping out fires. He hoped to actually get something for lunch, check in with Sherlock, chat with Rosie before she went in for her nap. "I'll try."

The crestfallen expression he saw at that let him know that she didn't really believe he would.

"I'll try," he said again, trusting that the sigh of exhaustion wasn't too audible.

++

"You're going to miss it," one of the nurses told him. "You should really try."

John sighed, feeling the day getting away from him. Another intubation, more orders, family phone calls to make, chest xray images to review. Lab studies to evaluate, pharmacy discussions in which he was told what he could order based on what was available in the building due to damn drug shortages and supply issues. And the recommendations that changed sometimes twice in one day. He'd heard too many times already that he should be present for the bloody discharge but to do so would significantly decrease his productivity. "I'll be there soon as I finish this."

Her brow lifted. "Okay," and her voice was just a little bit sing-songy, but it didn't strike him as problematic like it used to. "I just ..." His mind supplied the next phrase, sod it all, and he shoved back from the computer to stride down the hallway where the ambulance crew, all donned in their PPE, was bringing the patient out of the room. There was no monitor needed any longer, just the patient, dressed, and the oxygen. Over the nasal cannula, the patient was also wearing a mask, but his eyes were bright and crinkled with an effusive hidden smile that just barely overshadowed his anxiety.

He heard someone say, 'now, go ahead,' and it became apparent why they wanted him specifically to come witness this.

One of the nurses stood at the end of the stretcher holding her smartphone up in a gloved hand. It was playing, at full volume, a song that touched a chord in John's chest. He froze, stuck, listening and staring at the patient.

The song obviously hit home with the patient too - given that he was also surprised, eyes wide. And then there were tears coursing down his flushed, emotional cheeks.

++

Although the question was muffled through the layers of PPE, John Watson approached the bedside of the heretofore uncooperative patient. The nurses had tried everything short of rewards and threats. They'd advised him of the likelihood of intubation, of mechanical ventilation if he continued to refuse to turn on his stomach. He'd told them his back hurt, that he couldn't tolerate it, and all of them collectively watched his oxygen levels drop. And take longer to come back up. They'd watched the increase in the patchy pulmonary infiltrates on the chest xray and the shallow breathing.

And when they'd exhausted themselves, they'd asked John to have a go at the patient.

"What would you like to do once you recover, get out of the hospital?" John asked.

"I thought you ... were coming in ... to fuss at me." The patient had been warned the nurses were sending the doc in, and that if he wouldn't listen to them, perhaps he would if it came from a physician.

"No. You've heard it all." Glittery eyes looked back at home, the oxygen cannula delivering sixty liters, almost one hundred percent oxygen. "But I think you need to realise what's at stake. Because if you don't let them help you lie on your stomach, it most likely isn't going to happen no matter what we do." He let those words sink in before asking the question again. "What would you like to do once you recover?"

"Watch my son ... plays football ... Mann City farm team. We go to their games," and he would have said more but he couldn't catch his breath just then.

"Shame about Liverpool's season, this whole bloody virus. Because I love a good football game too." John thought of the days long past when he and Greg would meet up for a pint, watch a match. He nodded at the patient, staying focused. "I know your back hurts, but we can help. Pillows and bed angles. As often and as long as you can." John touched the patient on the arm to get his attention. "Because if you don't, I'm not sure there's going to be another game in your future." He hated to lay it out there like that, but it was reality, and sometimes there just wasn't a way to sugarcoat it. "I'll give you a minute. Because I think before the day is out, if you don't, we're going to need to place that breathing tube. Think about that football game with your son."

++

_When you walk through a storm_

From the iPhone held aloft came the stadium version of the song played prior to every football match, and for a brief moment, John almost felt like he wanted to sing along.

_Hold your head up high_

"Woo-hoo!" one of the nurses cat-called.

Another answered, "Yeah, baby! Go home!"

"You did it!" came the encouraged cheer of another.

_And don't be afraid of the dark_

"You ready?" the ambulance tech asked.

Over bright, tear-filled eyes, the patient nodded. "Thank you all so much!" His voice trembled with emotion, with the meaningful lyrics, and at the knowledge that he had pressed on hard, done difficult things, soldiered through the discomfort, and beaten this damned virus.

_Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart_

John joined in the staff that lined the entire hall of the unit, applauding. The patient glanced around, searching, looking, and landed on John. "Thank you," he tried to say, but the words were thick and hard to understand.

His nurse, Ashley, chuckled and swooped in again to rescue the moment. "All right, you slacker, enough lounging about. Your family's waiting for you at home. I hope they don't pounce on the ambulance or anything. Go home, be well, we'll never forget you!"

_And you'll never walk alone_.

John tapped his arm on the way past. "You did it!"

The patient smiled again, raised both hands weakly up over his head, a celebration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another success story.
> 
> The RL version of these events had the patient recording us playing the song for him, for his son. "He'll never believe this - you guys are too much." 
> 
> ++
> 
> This is an incredible song. And it was breathtakingly, absolutely perfect in this setting.


	12. Resigned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We had a few nurses resign. Some because "they didn't sign up for this." And others the way this chapter depicts, diagnosed positive, who resigned either right away or once they'd begun to recover. From the nurse's perspective, consider that most often, patients used to be someone to care for, who needed nursing support, who are now an actual, literal, bona fide _threat_ to your health and well-being.
> 
> We lost a provider at the very beginning, who knew that he was at-risk just given his age (61) and potential exposure (an intensivist who would be responsible to care for Covid patients). After leaving the hospital initially he worked in the office ostensibly to see patients, but apparently even that was too much, and he sequestered himself in his private office and wouldn't see any patients other than by tele-health. He even refused to interact with staff, citing exposure concerns. I believe there has now been an official and complete resignation.
> 
> Please don't judge those who have behaved like this. I would never presume to cast stones. I think that until you personally are actually looking at that diagnosis, you really have no idea how it's going to feel and how it's going to affect your mental health.
> 
> I hope I never find out.

"Did you hear, John?"

That sentence had never boded well, and John could feel his breath catch, hopefully unnoticeably, as he turned to address the nurse who'd spoken to him. He let his frown of confusion be his answer as he tried to gauge the level of bad news was possibly following.

"Dan is getting out today."

The smile was genuine and broad. These days, the critical care staff needed more of it, the celebrations, the victories, the ease. "Great. Soon?"

"Later this morning."

One eye narrowed as he recalled the last he'd interacted with the patient through the glass doors of the covid unit. "To a rehab? On oxygen?"

At that question, the radiant smile of the news-bearer dimmed a little. "Still, yes."

"That's okay. Small victories."

They met eyes, John and the nurse. These times, these crazy bedside coronavirus times had seen so many changes coming about. The mostly complete coverings at work. Always surgical masks; usually an N95 when in patient rooms. Face-shields when in rooms; eye protection was now routinely recommended for all of them at all times, and John had taken to a pair of low-profile, side-wrapping glasses.

The other day, he'd wiped them down and worn them home by accident. Oddly enough, Sherlock hadn't mocked him about it.

Their eye contact was perhaps a little probing. It was a combination of _are you okay_ mixed with _I'm not okay_ with a side of _we're okay_. All at the same time, and underpinning all of it was mutual support. It lasted longer than the hazard pay, longer than people long ago clapped for providers at change of shift, longer than the public tolerance of the shut-down and lock-down. John smiled again, resisting the urge to reach out with a supportive touch on the shoulder. "Thanks for the update. Truly good news."

++

John had always known a lot about small victories, growing up with a clandestine dysfunctional family. His strategy for surviving med school was take one day, one exam, one class, one semester at a time. There'd been small victories in his residency, in all of the steps of his military career. Over time, small victories usually led to winning the war.

Even in getting injured, evaluated, treated, operated on, sent down for recovery and finally invalided home, there had been some small victories too. Survival being the best "small" victory. It had led to a connection with Mike, a flatmate, a whole series of adventures.

There had been a myriad of small victories in his relationship with Sherlock, too. In victories over the refrigerator and what constituted appropriate contents. In hogging the covers. In daily division of labour. In his learning to actually fend for himself some of the time - retrieving his own mobile, sending his own messages, stopping at the store when there was a critical shortage. In what worked - and what didn't - for them physically.

Just the other day, he'd watched Sherlock navigate a small victory with Rosie. She'd been "helping" as he'd done some last minute investigating, incorporating some findings at the microscope, switching between the equipment and his laptop (another small victory: using his own computer at least some of the time), and she'd been all of her two-year-old kind of in the way but very interested in what he was doing, wanting to be part of his attention. John had been sitting since arriving home from work, mostly staring at a mindless book he'd been reading, relaxing, enjoying the non-urgency of being home, of listening to his special people interact. It wasn't until Sherlock's tone changed just a little that he started paying attention, though he didn't move much or say anything.

"So that settles that. Thanks for your help, Watson."

In response, she'd burbled something back.

"That's not yours, and not a toy. Don't touch that please."

Another pause.

"Rosie." There was the faintest hint of a standoff of sorts, Sherlock watching, waiting, and Rosie watching too. Looking for chinks in their armour, probably. She glanced at him, a bit of a sassy glimmer in her eye. Sherlock raised a brow of his own back at her. "Hands off."

Her hands were both on the microscope, one at the base, one on the neck.

Sherlock's voice was very calm, matter-of-fact. "I asked you something. I asked you not to touch. It's not okay for you to keep doing that."

There was more burbling and John could make out something along the lines of "I want to" and "please." It was delivered with a faint touch of ... attitude.

"Rosie."

John was paying full attention now.

"Hands off."

She moved one hand back and was returning Sherlock's gaze, steadily, watching. They were both focused as her other hand showed no sign of pulling back.

"All the way."

The one hand that remained moved until only two of her fingers remained on the neck of the microscope.

"Rosie."

In slow motion, she pulled her fingers back, watching him with surprising laser-focus.

"Good choice," he praised her, still very calmly and not overdoing it.

The rest of the evening was uneventful, non-descript, and included bathtime, pyjamas, brushing teeth, and snuggles on the couch all three of them while John read one of her favourite books. There was no fallout, no dynamics, no specific issue the remainder of the bedtime routine, and John hesitated at the steps with Rosie tucked up against him, before they went upstairs.

"Good night, Watson."

"Nie-nie," she responded. "'Ugg!"

"Of course," Sherlock answered her, coming close for the offered - demanded - bedtime hug.

Later, after they'd eventually tucked themselves into bed, John wondered at the potential benefit of this particular evening. He knew that although the specific incident, of Rosie testing the boundaries of touching the microscope, would probably be forgotten, hopefully Rosie would learn to follow directions from the beginning and not challenge them in the future.

Little victories indeed. And if the principle of learning obedience was one small victory at a time, John was all for that.

++

The alarm had gone off, and John was trying to keep the noise down in the morning as he readied for work. When Sherlock pressed up on an elbow to ask what the problem was, and that if John needed, he should turn on the lamp. "I can't find my trousers."

A hoarse, sleepy chuckle sounded then as Sherlock laid back down and stretched out long, long, long, under the covers. "John."

"I'd left them folded, right here on the chair by the ... " His words trailed off as he did in fact switch on the light and could see the item in question, that he'd been pursuing. He'd tucked them into the closet. "They're hanging up."

"Obviously."

"Did you ...?" John said quietly, realising that Sherlock had not only finished the laundry, hanging up what John had folded from a few days previously, but that the rest of John's shirts were also hanging in up his preferred orderly military profile, there in his closet. "Of course you did." The hanger snapped open and he pulled on the khakis, turning back to see Sherlock still watching him. "Why?"

"Why indeed."

"Did you ruin something, and I didn't notice?"

"No."

"Are you planning on asking for something, and trying to pay it forward so I'll agree?"

"No."

"You've never done this. Ever. Not even once." John tucked in his shirt, and was in the process of sliding his belt through the loops when he asked, "Am I being manipulated? Played?"

"Not at all."

"Some passive-aggressive move then?" John was sort of teasing but curious most of all.

"Thanks for thinking the best of me." He said this with a smile, curling onto his side then, tucking his hand under the pillow as his back arched, the line of his form under the sheets strong and smooth. "No. I merely know you're shouldering a terrible burden at work. I know you're in the heat of the battle now, and ... I actually was just trying to ... do something _nice_ for you. Something to make you feel appreciated."

"By hanging up my clothes?"

"Hmm, at your suspicions and disbelief, I guess I'll never do it again, shall I?"

"No, it's not that. And wow, it's ... fantastic, really. But a total surprise." He slid his feet into his shoes, dimmed the light again, and approached the bed. "Thank you should have been my first words." Bending low, he pressed lips up against Sherlock's warm, sleepy mouth. "I mean it. It was ... just unexpected. And ... a great start to the day."

"You're welcome."

"I'm sorry I didn't notice it last night. Obviously, I was ..." and he gestured from where he stood to his clothing, indicating he was close.

"It's okay. Your state of mind when you get home is on ... decompressing. You're understandably ..."

"Fragile?" The word had been tossed back and forth a few times among staff, providers, the nurses occasionally confessing that, although they coped, practiced, survived, and were quite strong at work, sometimes home was another story entirely. The word had kind of been on John's mind.

"I was going to say distracted."

"Either. And either way, thanks."

John was still smiling about it when he arrived at work to change into scrubs.

The smile faded somewhat when he rounded the central monitor station, sensing the high acuity and hectic pace, and the smile disappeared completely when one of the nurses, from inside the room, pulled the emergency cord - cardiac arrest - and he spent the next hour trying fruitlessly to snatch a life back from the perils of this bloody, novel virus.

++

Discharging a patient out of the hospital was much different than it used to be, when it was handing papers back and forth, signing here and there, pointing, sharing a biro. Now it was usually giving discharge instructions by phone, speaker phone in the room on occasion, sometimes over video calling, with a family member or caregiver. It involved coordination of when the patient's ride was coming or whomever was able to drive over to pick them up and a limited contact exchange at the doors of the hospital. It was often an ambulance to another facility and involved oxygen and transfer devices.

Gone were the days of the family coming to the unit. Although visitors were beginning to be allowed in the general floors, no one was permitted in the covid units. No one. No exceptions.

Oxygen requirements at discharge seemed to be indicated more than anyone would have liked. And it was often more than just two liters, with the patients requiring sometimes four or marginally higher after activity. Previously, even the elderly patient seldom went home with oxygen requirements. Now it was almost commonplace. Prescriptions weren't necessary for most everything else the typical coronavirus patient needed, either. It was over-the-counter medications - zinc, vitamins, melatonin, pepcid. Follow-up visits were stressed more than usual. Home health visitors were occasionally still used, but they were even doing more of this remotely, with visits by video-call. For any patient with lung involvement or abnormal ground-glass opacifications by chest xray, they were instructed to sleep - or lie down - on their stomachs as much as possible.

And like this patient whom the nurse had shared, John would be glad to know they were out of the building, grateful for the recovery, such that it had been, and hopeful that long-term and lingering side effects would be minimal.

But no one was really sure of anything anymore. The virus that had knocked the world on it's arse really had no history, no critical pathway, no depth of how long and when and what if. It was still very much a work in progress. It was hard to predict how long the symptoms would linger, at the organ involvement months or years down the road. No one knew.

This patient, Dan, was one of their own. One of the nurses. And John, who'd come to the frontline hospital trenches to help out as the coronavirus was drastically altering the landscape of medicine, answer the call for assistance, was one of the first to find out about it.

++

The first few weeks at the bedside, during the crunch, the surge, the high volume of high acuity covid 19 patients in the ICU were challenging, and by necessity the staff bonded. They just clicked. John had seen it previously in Afghanistan, that truly facing the unknown - and a dangerous unknown, at that - facilitated becoming brothers in arms. So when one staff member got sick, testing positive many days after symptoms, there were discussions and fears and concerns. Although they coped, the managed, they handled things, they were all still a little worried - who will be next? It had become personal and would likely not stop there. The insomnia got them all from time to time, John included, and occasionally he would ghost from the bedroom and lose himself in a mindless game on his phone. Or to have a cup of coffee while he watched something on the telly. Escapism.

It was during one of those o'dark-thirty mornings that he ended up online, scrolling through apps, mail, social media, and messaging. The hospital used a secure messaging system that had an indicator when the app was active, being used, and the provider was online/available. A text message came through, a little startling given the hour and that he wasn't at work. It was from Dan, the nurse, one of the more senior nurses, very competent. Experienced.

**I think I have it.**

The texts came in quick succession after that.

**Sorry to bother you, I saw you online.**

**God I'm freaking out.**

**My head is spinning.**

**Are you there? I didn't know who else to call.**

John's first thought was slightly troublesome, wondering if he'd been in contact with Dan over the past week or so that would elevate his own risk. Quickly, he tabled that thought.

**No problem, yes I was awake. Take a deep breath. What are your symptoms? John**

**Fever. 39. Fog. Everything hurts. Cough. Altered taste/smell.**

**Breathing okay? John**

**Heavy. Chest is heavy. Winded all the time. At rest. And no stamina with activity.**

**What meds do you have at home? John**

**Took paracetamol an hour ago.**

He pondered what he knew - and didn't know - about Dan. Other than that he was a very good nurse, he didn't know much about either his family or his history. **Can I call you? Or will that wake up and worry your whole house?**

**It will. And they'll be a few steps beyond worry.**

**Can you isolate there? John**

**I think so. Mostly. How do I know if I need the hospital?**

**If you can't hydrate or can't breathe. Do you have a pulse ox at home? John**

**No. And I'm supposed to work in the morning.**

**You must call out. _Immediately._ They'll tell you about how to get yourself tested. John**

A few minutes went by. **Okay, I did. And I'm really worried.**

John was formulating a reply, editing his own text response, when his mobile buzzed again with Dan's next message: **I don't want to die**

John's thumbs were answering before his mind even engaged. **You're going to be fine.**

And now, he realised, taking a deep breath, he needed to make bloody sure he didn't just lie to one of his friends, one of his co-workers, a fellow human being who was suffering. Because - and they all knew it - the virus didn't discriminate, and fine was not always going to be fine.

Although John's shift wasn't due to start just yet, he headed in early and made a stop at the hospital pharmacy department on his way. He handed over a list, his credit card, and said he'd be back later to pick the items up.

The pharmacy tech nodded and as she scanned the list, she took a slight lean backwards, then looked up with a little concern in her eyes over both of their masked lower faces. "This stuff for you?"

"No, I'm fine," John assured her. "Care package."

"Hope it helps."

 _You and me both_ , John didn't need to say. On the list was all of the latest recommendations on vitamins, supplements, and meds for treatment of the virus.

A few hours later, he'd secured a belongings bag, added a thermometer, a previous generation pulse oximeter that was no longer clinically used, a small bottle of hand sanitizer, and a sheet of paper with the rationale and instructions for self-proning. He included his personal mobile number on the note and asked Dan to call him at his convenience.

Another thought occurred to him, and he scrolled through his contacts, chose someone else. A text message or two was exchanged, and the bag of supplies was couriered over, one of the few perks of his connections with Mycroft Holmes.

++

"What's happening?" Sherlock asked later that night, after dinner. Rosie was long tucked in bed, and they were sharing the couch, watching a TV program, mindless entertainment.

"Nothing."

"You keep checking your phone."

"One of the nurses is sick. We sent over some stuff. I asked him to call." He realised he was indeed quite distracted, put the phone away. "Not a big deal I guess. He knows what to do." They both recognised the lie - no one could really tell what was a big deal any more. Small worries preyed on a vulnerable or nervous mind, and could indeed become not only troublesome - but dangerous.

++

The following day, when John's mobile rang, he was at least in a place where he could answer it (as opposed to in a patient's room in isolation gear and unable). It was an unknown number but he recognised the locality based on the number.

"Dr. Watson."

"It's Dan." The voice was breathy, higher pitched than usual. "I can't stop shaking." Under the words, John could hear the tremble and the oddly audible breathing.

"How high is your fever?" John asked, already hearing and sensing that things had grown much, much worse. There was some noise, shuffling, perhaps the mobile being adjusted. Or dropped? "Dan?"

"I ... don't know."

"Are you by yourself?" The words on the other end of the line were slurred and somewhat slow. "Dan?" In the background was some murmuring that stopped abruptly into a dry, hacking, fierce-sounding cough. He kept the mobile up against his ear and made a snap decision as he picked up a land-line.

"999. Fire, police, or ambulance?"

"Ambulance." John gave his name, then Dan's name and his address, grateful that he'd kept it from yesterday's delivery. "Probable Coronavirus patient. Altered mental status," and the dispatcher gave some instructions and information. John confirmed that Dan would come to their hospital. Into the mobile, John spoke again, "Dan, we're sending an ambulance."

The response was somewhere between a shaky moan of discomfort wrapped around the word 'no.'

John hung up the landline and called down to the A&E to give the doc in charge a heads up. When he'd finished that, the mobile connection in his hand was gone. Something else down the hallway then summoned John's presence and attention, the distraction a welcome fear-reducing few moments.

A few hours later, the doc phoned him back to let him know to expect an admission, a very tenuous, unstable, frightened covid patient. In the few moments of lucidity, he'd asked specifically for John Watson. And he'd begged, _please!_

++

John lay on his back in bed a few, chaotic, fast-paced, nightmarish days later, trying to calm himself, calm his mind, and breathe, using the relaxation techniques he'd used after his war injury to settle his mind. It was still, honestly, rather ineffective. He closed his eyes, opened them again only to find that they were still open, and was peripherally aware of Sherlock rustling beside him.

"You wanna talk about it?"

"Talk about what?"

"Whatever's eating you alive. Obviously." John turned his head to look over at Sherlock to find him tucked on his side, watching him. In the dim glow from the bedside clock, he could only make out the silhouette of a few curls and the glittering of Sherlock's eyes. "You've said nothing. Absolutely nothing of any consequence, for two shifts now."

The resultant swallow was loud in the room, and John's dry mouth mocked him. Better to share and give the situation severity and meaning, or keep it to himself and fester. Even though he could never actually turn the thoughts completely off, he'd chosen to distract, avoid, project, and deny the issues by keeping conversation deliberately, painfully, on any other subject. It had run the gamut between holiday plans, the weather, conspiracies about frankly ridiculous claims from the US, and their futures. Distant plans like retiring, Rosie's university education, and other very remote ideas. Of course, Sherlock had seen through it, watching, listening, sensing.

"I hate this virus."

Sherlock waited, and when several minutes had passed with nothing further being spoken, he did then answer. "I know you do." He spoke quietly, slowly, allowing John a few moments if he chose to speak. "I do too, but it's not breathing down my neck like it is yours."

"I try not to tell you everything. There's nothing gained. And I don't want you to worry." A soft puff of air, something sort of a snicker at the ridiculous statement. "For what it's worth."

"Idiot." John said nothing, let his sharp inhale be his reaction to the somewhat-familiar adjective. "Seriously. What do you think I'm here for? Decoration? If you need to unload, need to share something, have at it." His voice was a little rough, sleepy or perhaps because of his recumbent position. "I worry anyway. And probably wondering or speculating is worse than hearing about it." John's eyes drifted closed, and he turned so that he was laying still, supine, motionless on his back. "It's not fair, nor is it wise, for you to feel like you have to shoulder this alone. To protect me." Sherlock reached out a cool foot to rest it against John's calf, a slide of his hand and his fingers contacted John's arm, not holding or grasping, just a reminder of solidarity and support.

Recognising the wisdom and the truth of the words, John kept his voice quiet, and began to speak, keeping the story succinct best he could. "... and so when he got admitted up to the unit, he was ... just terrible. His chest xray was ... ungodly. You can just see it. Absolutely a sense of doom." Without a word, Sherlock reached again, moving to find John's hand, pried open the tight fingers over clammy palm. Lacing his fingers comfortably within John's, he let his thumb brush lightly. With each pass of the pads of his finger, just willing him to relax, _relax, relax._ "Blood work was ... We didn't have a choice but to put him on the ventilator, and he was petrified, asking for me." He hesitated then in the telling. "We, us docs, don't usually spend a lot of time in the room, the nurses take care of most of the hands on."

"Yes, you've said."

"But I felt like I had to. So I pappered up, and ..."

"Pappered up?"

"Yeah, it's the gear, abbreviation is PAPR. Powered air purifying respirator. It's the top half of a big bunny suit with an air system and filter." Sherlock nodded, so John pressed forward. "He was scared to death, clinging, really ... altered. Not thinking clearly. But he wanted me. So I went in. And he wanted to talk to his wife before the tube went in. So one of the nurses handed me the iPad, we set up FaceTime, I held it so he could ..."

The words trailed off. Sherlock wanted to gather John close, tuck his head under his chin, stroke his back, and provide comfort in what had obviously been a very distressing situation. But he waited, at least for a bit, let John work through it. But when the time was right, he'd be ... relieved himself.

"So he could say goodbye, in case they never saw each other again." Under cover of their night-darkened room, they looked at each other, and John's exhale was shaky and a little ... escalating. The emotion was high and real. Upsetting. His hand reached for Sherlock's face, touching his jaw, cheekbone, and sliding lightly through his hair. "I cannot fathom that, the isolation, the knowledge that you're sick as shit, that you could die, that you are quite literally speaking what might be your last words to someone you love." His words were quiet but calmer. "And you're all by yourself. At that point, the staff is there but it's not who you really want."

Sherlock did then reach out to pull John's tense body up against his own, to ease him against him, tucking his chin into John's hair, wriggling his knee so that John's legs rested up against his own, twined and together and intimate. "I can't imagine," Sherlock finally breathed against John's head, meaning it. "And I wouldn't want to listen to it."

"Pretty brutal. Some of the nurses were crying, the anaesthesiologist was there, and I was ... okay. It was hard, but the patient needed me to lead them through it. I chatted with his wife, too, briefly. So of course, it's soldier up. Told her we'd take care of him the best we knew to do and keep him comfortably sedated." His puff of air was resolved, a sigh of resignation. "Tried to keep it upbeat, positive."

"So will they be his last words?"

The rise of John's chest, ribs over lungs, shoulders elevating, belly expanding normally was followed by a relaxation, a twitch of the hug and embrace as John settled as much as he could against Sherlock. His whisper was sad. "I think they might be, yes." In his mind, he knew he would never unsee some of the ominous Covid findings, the lab sheets with ferritin, d-dimers and c-reactive proteins high, the terrible blood gas results. The black appearance of the patients' blood in the tubes. He would never unsee the radiographs, lungs whited out, patchy bilateral alveolar infiltrates. Dan's, particularly, were staggeringly bad. The way the patients breathed before intubation, the labouring and gasping, the effort, the terror of what was happening etched on all of their faces, patients and staff alike, although for different reasons.

++

_Death doesn't discriminate_

_Between the sinners and the saints_

_It takes and it takes and it takes_

_And we keep living anyway_

_We rise and we fall and we break_

_And we make our mistakes_

_And if there's a reason I'm still alive_

_When everyone who loves me has died_

_I'm willing to wait for it._

_Wait for it, wait for it, wait for it ..._

_(Wait For It, words of Aaron Burr, in Hamilton, the Musical, written by L.M. Miranda)_

++

From within his arms, Sherlock could feel John really try to take control of himself, of the remaining muscle tension, of his breathing, of his body position. He could feel the moments when his mind was settling, in the tightness of his shoulders as they very faintly began to ease. Pressing his lips tenderly against John's head one more time, he thought about the possibility that this virus could worm its way into their home too, their family. "I hate this virus too."

John's head nodded slightly against his chest. Despite his best intentions, he couldn't turn off the thoughts. _What if this were one of us? I don't want to have to say goodbye to you. Again._

++

Over the course of the next few days, he picked up some extra shifts, trying to more evenly distribute the load on the physicians in the covid unit. Daily, he updated Dan's wife, and they discussed the plan. Remdesivir, the antiviral medication. Convalescent antibody rich plasma was pending, although John wasn't certain it was definitively helpful anyway. Feeding tube and famotidine. Proning. Paralytics. Sedation. The chest x-rays that seemed to be unchanging, still diffusely abnormal.

There was continuing discussion of provider preference of medications, from hydroxychloroquine to supplements such as quercetin and vitamins including C, D, and Zinc. Most of the staff rolled their eyes as political leaders offered unfounded, untried, unproven, and questionable medical advice, particularly in the news that kept coming from America. John and most of the physicians he worked alongside tended to suggest that vitamins, supplements, and the like fell into the "not harmful and possibly helpful" category. All the staff knew that the virus would be studied until the end of time, collated into large groups as research was assimilated, processed, and analysed.

He talked with the nurses, reminding them about the various options, the reasons for hope, and acknowledged the incredible challenges of caring for one of their co-workers, the personal care, the emotional toll. A couple of times he would find one of the nurses, and occasionally a consulting physician, somewhat distraught over something or other, often times related to having one of their own as a very seriously ill patient. Most often, it was mitigated with a few calming, encouraging words, a sympathetic smile. Occasionally it seemed to need a careful side-hug or a quick, more direct hug. They needed it, at times, and understood the concept of benefit-risk. John told Sherlock a few times how the staff had bonded and fought side-by-side. He overheard comments a few times that if it weren't for the support of the staff, many of them thought of - and probably would have already - quit. There were times when he needed to remind himself of all of the things the rest of the staff was looking to him to provide - answers, and hope, and perseverance.

Arriving home, John was still in the routine of strip-shower-supper, and once in lounge pants or pyjamas, he would most often prefer to talk about anything but the virus, the hospital, the severity of their co-worker, or even world trends and cases. They no longer watched the news.

Sherlock had finally settled on benign and rather open-ended questions such as, "Anything to report?" or "What's on your mind?" and "Love to hear a success story from today. Make one up if necessary," had actually worked a few times. It had become a game, in that John may or may not lie and Sherlock tried to determine the fact or fiction parts of the story. One evening, John worked in a ridiculous one about an alien. They knew all about avoidance and that it was mostly protective. But not long term. The creative story-telling helped, and led to some interesting diversionary discussions. After a few evenings, though, of something continuing to plague John's mind, Sherlock took the more direct approach.

The well-timed question was casual. And pointed. "How's he doing?"

For a moment, Sherlock watched John look back at him steadily, wondering at the more invasive than usual question and he thought perhaps he would deflect. Instead, his brow furrowed a little. "It's bad." He could have elaborated about any number of things - the daily consideration of ECMO, the refractory hypoxia, the terrible phone updates with Dan's wife, the conversations and more frequent tears from the nurses, the bleak expressions on some of their faces at the suspicion that they were beginning to fight a losing battle. But bad summed it up. "It's going to be hard if ..."

Sherlock's hand was warm over John's forearm, a comfort, a reassurance. _I know._

_I know._

It was enough.

++

A week or so later, a few days on the seemingly last ditch efforts of the ECMO therapy, it seemed as if there were no tools left in the kit, nothing further to add except more suffering and more days of misery and torture. John had been updating his wife daily, being as gently realistic as he could. He'd been contemplating the upcoming discussion of medical futility later on, so first thing he stood at the doorway watching through the glass. The nurse at the bedside noticed him there, tapped on the monitor and pointed to one of the readings. It was a slight - very slight - improvement.

And the little improvements continued over the course of the shift, subtle changes in pressures, in oxygen levels, in activity tolerance. Less fever, more haemoglobin. More urine output, less third space oedema.

The phone call to his wife used words like, "he's still critical, but we're a little bit, cautiously impressed with the numbers" and "this is a small change, but it's still for the better," and "we'll talk again tomorrow, but the trend looks somewhat optimistic." When they hung up, John could hear the breathed prayer, the murmured, _oh god please._

++

The battle was long and debilitating, arduous, with multiple set-backs, and the residual weakness left in Dan as the ventilator was finally successfully withdrawn was profound. He would have to learn to move, walk again, swallow again, cough, and it was going to be a very long haul. But the night following the discharge from the hospital, upon John's arrival at home, he felt an ease, a need to share, and a relief in the telling. "He went to a rehab centre today."

"Good news."

"I hope so. He's in for a long journey."

++

Cases came and went, dwindled, surged, and the staff settled in. Overall, volumes lowered, a few units closed and John continued with his commitment, although it was quite a relief when he no longer worked mega-long stretches. Overall, hospitalisations and acuity diminished. One evening, it had been mentioned in passing that Dan was just beginning to walk again. Progressing. Off oxygen except at night. It was a bittersweet moment though, as his resignation had been processed officially. Apparently the letter had stated that he was no longer interested in ever returning to bedside nursing, even if he eventually recovered enough to do it.

It started John thinking.

++

"Interested in going along with me, paying a visit to someone?"

"In a pandemic?" Sherlock queried, disbelieving. He knew how serious they were both taking the quarantine, the distancing, the risk.

"Garbed, obviously. An outdoors visit, actually." An outward gesture from Sherlock's elegant hands, very much a get on with it, and John smiled. "To see that nurse, the one who'd been so sick. He's in a rehab, and they're cautiously allowing short, scheduled visits. I think it'd be a good idea. I tentatively set it up for tomorrow. They'll allow us both, but you don't have to. We'd need to be screened of course. I asked Mrs. Hudson if she'd --"

"Of course."

++

John and Sherlock had been screened, twice, to Sherlock's discontent, and he challenged the variability of the temporal thermometer, the vigilance of the staff, and the vague way the questions were phrased. John shushed him at both checkpoints and they eased into chairs that had been placed a few feet apart in the courtyard area of the rehab centre. Movement at the door, and Sherlock tapped John's arm as two staff members arrived, one pushing a wheelchair in which a thin, gaunt, young man sat. "That's Dan," John said quietly. "Wow, he looks ..." His tone and volume let Sherlock fill in the blanks: awful, tired, weak, malnourished.

The entourage halted a few meters away, and Dan's serious expression changed. Even from behind the mask, they could tell he was weakly smiling. "Here's good," he directed the other staff member, who stepped forward to place a rolling walker in front of them.

John moved as if to stand up, and would have had Sherlock not placed a restraining arm on him. "Let him. He's got help there."

With a nod, they watched as Dan hauled himself, with assistance, to a standing position and walked the final few meters to where John sat. The wheelchair was quickly brought up behind him and he sat back down.

"Thanks for coming," he said. His voice was weak but his words were clear. After so long on the ventilator, John was impressed and told him so. “And thanks for everything back when I first got sick. I don’t remember everything but ... you were there for me.”

"Wouldn't have missed it." John made brief introductions, and the other two nodded their greetings. "And we'll be brief, so you don't exhaust yourself."

One of the people with him touched his shoulder, gestured that they'd be close by. "Fine," Dan said to them as they left.

John watched them go. "Thanks for seeing us."

Sherlock was studying the aides, and leaned in, "If you want, I can give you some ... information on the taller one, in case you ever need some extra leverage."

Dan chuckled, and for a few minutes, he and Sherlock chatted about absolute trivial matters, issues, the weather, and a few other light-hearted news items. It was John who re-directed the conversation back to the present as they watched one of the staff members leave, the other totally absorbed in his mobile and not paying attention. "Seems like not a bad place, I guess."

"I hate it. I can't wait to get out." Both John and Sherlock turned curious eyes to him at the change of demeanor. "I'm the youngest patient here. And visitors piss them off, the extra work."

"Hopefully not too much longer then."

"I'm still on pureed food. I can't do much completely on my own yet." His sigh was both discouraged and resigned. "You heard I quit the hospital?"

"I did. And I don't blame --"

"I never want to go back. I just want to put all of it behind me."

"Understandable."

"No, I don't think you do. You couldn't possibly." His eyes were wet over the mask, and he made a frustrated sound. "I hate this. This virus and everything else right now."

"I'm so sorry," John began.

"I'm okay, really. And I didn't mean ..." He truly looked horrified, and shook his head, although it was weak and a little crooked as he did so. He was even sitting a little lopsided in the chair, his core muscles obviously weakened as well. "Thanks for coming," he repeated. "I should be more ... I don't know ... grateful."

"I'd be pretty pissed, myself," Sherlock commented. When both John and Dan looked over, he continued. "What a raw deal."

John was nodding, and he spoke quietly, "And truly, that's one of the reasons I wanted to come over, to visit. Because if you can't unload to someone, it's going to destroy you." He and Sherlock met eyes, Sherlock's expression questioning and John smiled then nodded again. "Why don't you give us a few minutes? I'll meet you out front."

++

Sherlock was outside the doors of the rehab centre when John emerged a brief time later. His eyes sparkled as he took in the location. "You get asked to leave?"

Above the blue mask, Sherlock's eyes flared in annoyance. "I don't want to talk about it."

"One day you'll learn."

"How'd that go?"

"Good," John said, but with some hesitation. "Needed. He needed permission to really let loose on how terrible this was. Is."

"You knew he needed it."

John shrugged in agreement.

"You're a caregiver, through and through."

"You've been taking care of me, too, from time to time," John's voice was low, quiet, sincere. "We all need it."

"More than just tea. And laundry." Sherlock added.

"Right. It's taking care of Rosie. And not minding when I need some quiet. And to have a shower immediately upon coming home." John gestured over his shoulder, at the building, at where he'd left Dan with the aides again. "You don't go through this, make a huge career change, stare death in the eyes, and somehow manage to cheat it" and at this moment, they both hesitated as John's words became living, applicable, and a little personal, "and not come out the other side a changed man." They began walking, knowing eventually they would hail a cab, but for the moment, at least moving away from this place was needed, together.

"For the better, eventually," Sherlock said quietly, sliding his hand up against John's, their knuckles rubbing, brushing, exploring, and finally joining.

John squeezed, once. And it was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been interesting, now that we're ~~seven thousand years~~ not even six months into this pandemic, all the little things that others have been doing for frontline workers, from things at home, to cautious conversation, to open-ended questions, to support group availability. In the beginning particularly, there were meals, small gifts, expressions of appreciation, and other tangible things that all conveyed "we appreciate you" and "thank you."
> 
> I'm sure that our fictitious OTP would have been quite sensitive, going both directions, to the needs of the other. I just wanted to dabble with that concept a little more, and this ... just sort of happened.
> 
> I also wanted to save a little story for posterity, in case I ever want to look back at this (which I can't actually imagine right now) and remember some of the bigger worries and issues: that of astronomical anxiety among a provider who unfortunately gets a positive Covid diagnosis. It is _Devastating._ The absolute last thing you need to imagine is personally living the nightmare of what the sickest patients go through - sick, mostly naked, proned, tubes in every orifice, perhaps paralyzed, possibly inadequately sedated, and worst of all ALONE.
> 
> Isolation is one of those circumstances - collateral damage - downplayed and glossed over by much of the public. But riddle me this, why are the non-covid death rates at nursing homes now higher than usual or expected? Have you measured increases in drug use and suicide, in mental health and emotional distress? Why do family members insist on "full code" status in the face of absolute medical futility and prolonged suffering? I'll tell you - it's because people are alone. And isolation is detrimental.
> 
> I don't mean to downplay any emotional issue, suffering, mental health, and I apologize for not offering more of a fix. A vaccine would be nice.
> 
> Remember your caregivers. Check in with people from time to time. Dangle a carrot in front of someone. An extended good wish sometimes has more ripples than you would think.
> 
> I think I made it through two paragraphs without growling "I hate this virus" so there it is again.
> 
> ++
> 
> A couple of nods to Hamilton the musical, once directly in the piece. And a few times in the use [over-use] of the phrase "that would be enough." I considered trying to add something along the lines of "writing myself out of the narrative" but thought it would be too much.
> 
> ++
> 
> Be well. Please continue to take this seriously enough that you don't risk yourself or your family more than necessary. Some regions (mine included) are getting there. Don't slack off now.
> 
> <3


	13. Shelter In Place, revisited

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _For emilycares. Thanks for checking on me._

The news had been bleak and the headlines were defeating.

Resurgence.

Cases Continue to Spike.

Hospitalisations Surge.

Hospital Resources Overwhelmed.

Death Rate Curve Rises Steeply.

John pulled a novel from the shelf, something in his arsenal of mindless, escape reading, set in something so futuristic there was little resemblance to current society. The words didn't hold his interest for long, and the book ended up forgotten in his hands, open to a particular page, askance. It was a prop, a useless and ineffective distraction.

Sherlock, across the room typing furiously on the laptop, had been watching and he noticed the precise moment when the book failed. He let sixty seconds elapse. "Do you --?"

"No."

The crinkles around the ice-blue eyes narrowed just a little, concerned, puzzled. "Are you thinking about --?"

"No." For a few moments, John's eyes met and held Sherlock's. He felt, heard, and struggled with a sensation in his chest as he swallowed, searching for words that would be both true and topic-ending. From behind closed eyes, he spoke his resolution, his heartfelt opinion. "I can't. Not again."

Arms wrapped around him and John startled just a little as Sherlock pulled him in a little closer, settling next to him on the sofa. John had been uncharacteristically unaware that Sherlock was even moving, let alone joining him. "You don't have to. You didn't have to the first time."

"Doesn't change the fact that I feel like I should."

"You are not obligated. This is far bigger than one provider in one hospital of many in the city." Unconvinced, John waited, watched, listened. "Do you want me to absolve you of any responsibility?" John's faint smile answered that as a no thank you. "I'm certain you can find other ways to help. Tele-medicine this time, perhaps." John's shoulders responded to that, a faint non-committal rise but did not reject the idea outright. "Perhaps this wave is meant to see you riding it out here."

"I made it hard for you last time."

He heard the guilt and regret and knew it was an indicator of unresolved inner turmoil. In someone less resilient than John it might have signaled depression. "That is not what I said, nor what I meant." Sherlock's hand on John's chin forced him to look directly back at him. "But we all have our calling, and if yours is to go back in the trenches, I support you. But if you have reservations, and aren't feeling that same call, then do not volunteer." They exchanged faint smiles, and Sherlock's thumb rubbed lightly on John's jaw before relaxing.

"People are ... just idiots. The same ones who sent thank you notes and food and expressed their appreciation to healthcare are now out and about, spreading the virus, refusing to wear masks, being generally irresponsible. They're downplaying the severity."

"Idiots," Sherlock echoed. "Let's be wise, then, in our own little haven, here with Rosie. Ride it out here."

With a nod, John let his eyes closed. "Yes." He felt the weight lifting from his shoulders, his chest, and his mind as the decision cemented. For a few moments, he sat, feeling the warmth of Sherlock at his side, Sherlock's warm hand on his knee in solidarity and reassurance. Small feet on the steps grew louder and he looked over to see Rosie, smiling and carrying one of her baskets of small stuffed animals over to them. The three of them sat on the couch for a few minutes as Rosie shared a small made up story using most of the toys and by the time she was done, all of them were holding or wearing some stuffed creature. A few minutes later she had packed it all up and wandered over to something else.

"Feels right," John breathed. "Staying."

"I know."

Quietly, in a very low private tone, he put his hand over Sherlocks, where it had come to rest on his leg again. "It was really bad." _It might get that way again_ , he didn't have to add.

"I know." _You were amazing. We will be amazing, here, together._

Their fingers interlaced, warm, safe, together, and there was a comforting squeeze. They smiled, taking a moment to watch Rosie be her own adorable, sweet and innocent self, and they exchanged another glance of fondness, of familiarity, of safety. Further words were unnecessary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STFH. WYDM.
> 
> Pretty sure further explanation is unnecessary. 
> 
> I will add, If you aren't feeling well, please stay away from people.
> 
> Edited 1/6/21 to be stronger and louder for the people in the back: if you are sick, feverish, coughing, have altered smell/taste, do not under any circumstances go to work, go to the store, or irresponsibly expose any other people to a potentially deadly virus.


	14. Deep Breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... and count to ten.
> 
> Slowly.
> 
> Good thing John's anger management is a highly honed skill.
> 
> ++
> 
> John's response to an anti-vaxxer. Who just happens to be his bloody sister for gods sake.

_..._

_So, that's about it. Sherlock solved another case all from the safe confines of our living room. Be well, wear your mask, I'm hearing good things about containment and the vaccine is due in a couple of weeks here - keep your chin up, hope is around the corner!_

_John Watson_

++

[message deleted]

John, what the hell? My comment is gone. HW

[message deleted]

Harry, sending you a PM. JHW

++

You can't post stuff like that on my blog. I will take it down. Every fucking time. So knock it off.

I'm not even going to apologise for the typos and possibly grammatically incorrectness of this private message. I am too fired up and too exhausted and too stressed to give two shits about making this readable or PC or even kind. For the most part.

And just so you know, you're my sister - we're family - and I do care about you enormously. So please do not take any of this personally. But know that my blog is my opinion and particularly about this bloody virus it is grounded in medical fact and personal experience.

It is okay to disagree about vaccination. I understand that some people regard it as "poison" and "unsafe" and "conspiracy." I'm not even going there. While I do acknowledge that this vaccine is new [btw, the bloody _virus is new_ ], mRNA design is not. It has been out for years, studied, researched, and in truth, it was absolutely divine providence that the technology was in place when this pandemic struck. It makes development, production, distribution, and effectiveness so much easier because of it. I understand that some people feel "I just can't risk it," and for some, that might be true on a personal level. But in no instance is it okay to take anyone's freedom of choice away. And because this is my blog, I refuse to let it be a debate that gets nasty. Truth and medical facts are really not up for that kind of argument. Discussion, of course. Know that when you attack and insult my readers like you did - really, Harr, what are you, thirteen again? - it is not okay. It's downright rude.

So you say you don't want to risk the vaccine?

So does that mean you are willing to risk getting a virus? Of which we know very little about the long-term effects and potential future health issues. And we're just talking about the survivors here, the fortunate ones. We do already know that some are long-haulers and even months afterward, are suffering from permanent, debilitating lung damage. Of psychological issues from stress of disease and isolation. We know there is heart damage, stroke, increased clotting problems. But for a virus that has been around probably slightly more than 13 months, we just don't know. So if you claim that risk from the vaccine is why you're not going to get it, at least acknowledge that by doing so, you are indeed risking something that almost certainly _can be_ more dangerous.

And not "risking" the vaccine - trust me, if you get really sick, I guarantee you'll be willing to "risk" some of the treatments when you can't breathe.

Because here's what the course can be. A person gets infected, tests positive, and then after seven or eight days, the person starts to feel really terrible and short of breath. Because that's what we are seeing: hospitalisation onset is usually between day six and eight. Once you're in the hospital then, scared, anxious (because remember, you're by yourself given visitor lockdowns in almost every hospital setting again), with providers in full gear, more barriers than can really be imagined, you are probably going to get additional treatment. Don't think for a moment that any of these treatments are without some degree of risk.

Dexamethasone. Powerful. Can lead to short term mood changes, insomnia, stomach upset. Sometimes kidney involvement that _usually_ resolves.

Convalescent plasma. It's a blood product. While the risk of transfusion reaction is small, it can be deadly. Transmission of other diseases is unlikely but it can certainly give you a few days of worry. And the technology of convalescent plasma is not quantitative - meaning one unit can give you a lot of antibodies or a little. Measuring it at this time is not widely possible.

Remdesivir. The antiviral infusion. Off-label but given emergency approval for covid-19. Isn't making a terrible difference in outcomes according to World Health Organisation. Facilities continue to use it because it has seemed to help in many cases. More studies are needed. 

All treatments come with risk. Every prescriber, every physician, every facility, we all weigh potential benefits against possible risk. It is always a concern. So for those not willing to risk the vaccine (which is largely already expected to be safe and does not cause harm) many are then quite willing to risk blood products and other medications that are far less effective and come with some inherent risk as well?

At least acknowledge that refusing the vaccine is a trade-off. Either way, you're risking something.

And one last thing, know that right now resources are stretched about as thin as we can get without being ethically on thin ice. Do you want to have to choose between who gets the oxygen equipment, the ventilator, the hospital bed, the medication, the nursing care? Because I might have to. And to continue as we are is downright asking for it. Some hospitals are so full that there isn't room in the A&E. Why? Because coronavirus patients are clogging up rooms of all care levels. Because when there isn't an inpatient bed, the A&E has to hold them. Because people keep walking in to have babies, or need an appendectomy, or have chest pain. Patients around the globe who have had to wait have died of things like heart attacks in parking lots because hospitals are too full. Waiting is not only miserable for the patient, it is bad medicine that no one wants to choose. Remember when you had that excruciating kidney stone a few years back? Imagine if that was you stuck outside the hospital waiting for pain medicine, that procedure, a bed. If that was mum with complications from her diabetes or a stroke. Waiting for a bed can have serious complications including permanent disability and death.

Think about it. It's not always about you. And is it really too much to ask?

I understand the valid concern that the vaccine hasn't been tested in the usual way over many years. But the two largest Pharma companies in the US have a combined total of over 74000 patients. Not one death. Extremely high protection. A very small number who got a mild case of the virus (not from the vaccine).

Vaccination won't fix everything right away. But it will allow resources to be distributed much more fairly, based on need rather than availability.

When I was in the covid unit back in April through August, we talked regularly about the future vaccine and that it was going to be too late to prevent the second surge. Which is true, and we're in it. And it's much worse. I remember hearing one of the other docs say that he wasn't too sure he'd get the vaccine. And then we lived through those months of hell and he is now a strong, vocal, tactful supporter of it. He made the comment about being willing to be first in line. That should tell you something too, that frontline providers are overwhelmingly in favour of it. They have seen too much.

And if we can spare providers - the nurses especially - from any more emotional consequence of what this has done to the landscape and climate of nursing and healthcare overall, it would be a good thing. Keeping them from resigning. Keeping their spirits up. Preventing a nursing shortage.

Giving them, and all of us, and the world at large, HOPE.

I hope this has made sense. I don't usually jump into an email and kind of plead my case, Harry, but I did want to respond.

Sherlock's even trying to have his well-connected and mostly-well-meaning brother get him access to the vaccine as soon as it's available. Mycroft told him that there was no way in hell he would be diverting a vaccine dose away from people who need it more than he does. [I know Mycroft's not a hugger - nor is getting that close to anyone not a household member wise - but there was a little part of me that was tempted to richly reward and acknowledge that very good answer. I swear, it's a rarity and to be celebrated when someone other than me tells Sherlock no. ;-) ]

I'm sure this has done nothing to change your mind, but I needed to say it to you anyway. So don't be angry with me, we can have different opinions and still be okay.

Be well. Wear the damn mask. Take care of yourself.

\-- John

++

[comment deleted]

So this vaccine thing. You've been a pain in the arse since mum first brought you home. Even moreso when you're right. I'll think about it. HW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Details about the case, the blog, the actual deleted text from Harry left intentionally vague.
> 
> ++
> 
> I did not write this to open the floor to vaccine debate. Kind comments are welcome, however, just know that I share John's sentiment that it is a safe option and important for herd immunity and to fight this virus [and get out of my way when it's available]. My facility like most is not mandating it but they are providing it to frontline workers.
> 
> Messenger RNA (mRNA) vaccines are not attenuated or inactivated virus but a piece of synthesised protein material that encodes an antigen (the spike protein for SARS-CoV-2), and teaches our immune system to elicit a response with antibody production (JAMA, 2020; 324(12). It mimics a natural infection without the need to be exposed to an actual pathogen. Other trials of mRNA vaccines include Zika, CMV, and rabies are in progress, as well as their use for various cancers.
> 
> Here is a shamelessly copied reminder:  
> Both the disease and the vaccines are new. While we do not know the long-term effects of the vaccine we also do not know the long-term effects of COVID-19 infection. We do know COVID-19 is a very contagious infection and can be a serious illness for many people. Vaccines are a safer choice for protecting everyone.
> 
> Squint at whatever details you need to. Be informed when you're ready to make your own choice. Be tolerant of those who believe differently than you but do not let them hurt you. Speak up when necessary. Store employees or shoppers without masks? Walk out. Stay home. If in person meetings are required, insist that everyone wear a mask. 
> 
> My facility is now "requesting" that each person eat lunch completely alone to minimise risk of virus transmission - sounds like AO3 browsing time to me. Although a meal break isn't happening too often anymore.


	15. Not Forgotten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a feel good chapter at all. Dark and terrible covid musings. Fitting for a dark and terrible disease.
> 
> Don't miss the word dark. Feel free to skim - or skip.
> 
> Strong doses of fluff and happy endings are needed to off-set the brutally honest ramblings and thoughts from a frontline covid healthcare provider. In this case, it's John. But he speaks for all of us.

_Write them down. Memorialise them. Honour the memory, the experience. You may never want to revisit it, but at least this way, you give your mind permission not to dwell on it. On them. If you're afraid of forgetting, afraid of them being forgotten, put pen to paper. Save them safely, permanently, where this specific worry won't trouble you any longer._

Ella's explanation, her suggestion, had been longer, more specific as to how memories can hobble a person, and John pondered the directive for a few days before jotting down the list in a spiral notebook. His handwriting, formerly scrawling and doctoresque almost unreadable, was small, concise, a blend of cursive and speed printing.

The lull before wave one, hallways quiet and eerie. Empty rooms ready, staff on edge, not knowing what to expect, fearful and a little excited. Looking back on that now, god how innocent we all were. We will never - I will never - get that innocence back. We had no idea what was coming.

Wearing masks only in positive rooms. Now, wearing them all the time when not home. I'm not sure we will ever get that innocence back again either.

The first admission. The first vent. More admissions. Watching the stress levels rise. Nurses, staff, even other docs looking to me for calm directions, for leadership. (Were they waiting for panic?) Until the rooms were full.

The first death. Followed by many more. Too many to really remember. Which looking back, is a tragedy in itself, that for me, another sad outcome but for a family, a spouse, a child, the absolute worst day of their life. Suffering ending for one, suffering continues in a different form for those left behind.

We are forever changed. Now that we know what "was coming" we have every right to be very afraid, very discouraged.

++

Specific things, circumstances, I don't want to particularly forget - although I don't especially enjoy remembering either:

People who early on had no idea how contagious the virus was. Well, my boss was sick, and I worked with him but not that close. We were just out for dinner, across the table. Well, my kid was home from university, called me a couple days later. Well, it's not like I was really around anyone, just at the store, just at the bar, just out with friends, just over so-and-so's house. I'm taking it serious, I just refuse not to live my life (this one, six weeks of suffering, proning, trached, exhausted, refractory hypoxaemia, ungodly amounts of sedation and paralytics, only to have the suffering protracted by unrealistic family, well next week is their anniversary, and then someone's birthday, how utterly selfish).

Those first patients chest xrays, god how little we knew in the beginning, that ominous "patchy diffuse alveolar infiltrates" which was curious in wave one was a death sentence in wave two. And the markers, the d-dimers, the CRP, the ferritins - and nothing we really tried, no new findings we instituted seemed to really impact.

A few survivors, playing the Beatles song as they left the unit or left the hospital. The one patient, the football fan: You Will Never Walk Alone. I haven't listened to that and in all likelihood will never do so again. Not without tearing up.

Some conversations: The video call just before intubation, explaining what was going on, why waiting was no longer an option, listening to family members say goodbye, discuss hopeful things - when you get home, or wedding plans, or food, or meals, or I just want to hug you and hold your hand. And listening, knowing beyond a shadow that home, discharge, survival will never happen. Conversely, I remember telling one patient the truth, that they were going to be okay, that they would get home. The relief on his face was unbelievable. He was still there, waiting to die because no one had told him otherwise. Talking with one man who was caring for his wife who had advanced dementia, knowing he was the caregiver and worrying about her as he was intubated, never to survive the virus. He died, suffering and worrying and unhappy. The long-hauler's daughter who had absolute hysterics when her mum died. Her words - "I just want my mom back" - were suffused with such pain that it induced gut-wrenching pain in all of us who heard it. I pronounced that one, went through the motion, the words genuine but not enough - "I'm sorry for your loss" and "she's gone" and "she's not suffering any longer."

Other things that need to go away:

John I need you to come pronounce ...

Hi this is Dr. Watson, I'm so sorry to have to call you. Unfortunately, he or she experienced loss of pulse ... everything we tried didn't work and he or she has died.

and the secure text messages

\- sending you another admission

\- just intubated

\- how many beds in covid ICU do you have?

++

And oh god, the suffering amongst us, providers, staff, docs, nurses, techs. I was in rooms but nothing near like what the nurses had to do. The poor nurses, getting up close and personal and invested. And I don't say that lightly. It showed in their eyes - early, wave one, pain, acute distress, shock, and mostly resilience. The resilience had cracks by the end of the first few months, the moral fatigue, the separation, the isolation, the exhaustion. The early start of tears, the camaraderie between us, when there was a few seconds of honesty and "are you okay?" answered by an of course not. By agreement, it was spoken and then we all moved on, unwilling and unable to accept that the crumbling of walls would mean certain defeat.

Numbness to the hell we worked in. Good on one level, terrible on every other.

Working extra, coming in on what was supposed to be a day off, all of us did it.

It was worst, I think, for the nurses who had to video call (zoom, facetime, whatever) with families before the breathing tubes went in, those breathy and winded words, sometimes interspersed with them giggling or shallowness when we as providers knew it was goodbye. We knew, and they didn't. We offered hope when there wasn't much. The lying has taken a toll.

Watched a nurse once help a dying patient with the phone, saying (more like listening to) goodbye with family members, then helping her work through the agitated restlessness of hypoxaemia, ultimately holding her hand and talking to her as heart rate dropped, respiratory rate grow shallower, pulse oximetry at a non-survivable fifties to actually having a pleth down into the single digits. [side note, that is just ... crazy. never saw that before Covid, hope to never see it again]

The long-haulers who might make it home only to come back with more profound symptoms, with clot, or stroke, or fibrosis. Pancreatitis a few times. GI bleeding. Cardiomyopathy. Shortness of breath was the worst. And god they were miserable and some knew they were dying. Drowning, gasping, suffocating - and no relief in sight.

++

I vividly remember being in the hallway outside one of the Covid units, texting Sherlock with my mobile in a plastic bag, just checking in, I don't recall the message. Nor does it matter.

The doors opened into the hallway, which were deserted, no visitors, minimal staff even, hospital-wide trying to keep contact and exposure down. Out of the unit came the morgue stretcher. Again. The metal base, wheels and pedals and brakes, silver and cold and boxey held up another hard, cold, gray stainless steel platform under a rigid cover, but the plastic wrap had got stuck so I could see the white shroud pack underneath it. I don't know why anyone bothers to hide that it's a body anyway, obvious, it's a morgue cart and no one is hiding anything. But this time, two nurses in gear, gloves, gowns, masks, shields, booties, pushing it. One of them had recently been crying. The fatigue is carved from inside to the very edges of their PPE. It is in the set of their shoulders and the lack of spring in their steps.

More than death, the loss, this fucking virus. The endless cycle. It is the pain of yet another person dying alone.

Later that same day, another chance happening, a nurse's steps slowing a little in the hallway outside yet another defeating and depressing room, another shift that sucks the energy out of all of us. I asked her - and I have no idea why, knowing the answer was either going to be a lie (why bother?) or a truth that is tear-inducing pain - if she was okay. Her answer, the specific words I don't recall, but it was having just been in a room, and she explained about an older lady, maxed on high flow and a NRB mask, her oxygen levels very low, very problematic, a DNR, so more aggressive ventilation strategies not an option. She'd been all by herself, suffering, too weak to talk on the phone, too weak to be distracted by the television, too sick to do anything but lie there, too strong to just give up and die, too weak to really self-comfort. For a few moments, the nurse said, she'd stayed in the room, talked with her, soothing with lotion on dry hands (or so they looked, couldn't feel through the gloves). And her vision probably not very acute, and no glasses were possible given the oxygen modalities on her face, so perhaps the visage of the nurse were so alien, mask/goggles/coverings. Foreign, strange, impersonal. She'd lamented how distant they were, but that as she turned to leave the room, the woman started to humm, to try to sing a little, to entertain herself, to self-comfort, while she waited to die.

God it is any wonder that any of us will really survive this nightmare, this god-awful, god-forsaken broken reality of healthcare now.

++

Meanwhile, out in public, the virus is a hoax and just stop paying so much attention to it, and you can't make me quarantine. It's no wonder there hasn't been a healthcare provider taking drastic measures against the rampant idiocy. It's why mostly none of us watch the news, have sworn off social media, and on so many levels, being at work (distracted and busy) is easier than being home (worrying and trying to act normal).

That felt rather guilty to write. I love being home, appreciate my family, Sherlock, Rosie, Mrs. Hudson of course too from a distance. I treasure them, the ability to love and hold and be present. I acknowledge that this is hard on all of us, that they suffer too. Even as I know I can't unload all of my pain on them. Not only would it not be fair, it would only escalate their worry.

++

Things I don't say at home:

another death. I thought maybe this one would make it.

another staff member sick. worse, another staff member admitted.

another patient in a non-Covid unit testing positive. And despite the surgical masks, there has been exposure of staff members. A positive staff member who might have shared a meal break across the room. More exposure. An outbreak in one of the administrative offices. Staff members family getting sick, community acquired. Modified quarantine, come to work anyway, we need you too much for you to do the right thing and stay home. ( ... or stay the fuck home, for some reason I censored myself - why bother?)

I don't want to be the next one diagnosed. At my age, the idea, the horror, the statistics aren't all that reassuring. Young and younger people still do get sick and die. The thought of being in the ICU, knowing that it was going to get bad, perhaps reading my own chest xray or Covid markers, that there is that period of time where the sick person knows that bad is coming, that death is likely, that the path between the present horror and the end is a road paved with pain, suffering, torment, sedation, awareness, humiliation, tubes, more suffering, knowing that people at home couldn't do anything, the powerlessness of this virus's atrocity is known and unpredictable from person to person. Roulette.

That last paragraph would understandably freak Sherlock out. I remember saying that I wasn't afraid - in the early days, before we knew. Now, I know enough to be very afraid.

++

Ella was right. This felt helpful, like some of these things needed to be said, that I can even return to this and revisit it (probably not) or add to it (possible when other little things come to mind). It was good to put them on paper. Paper belongs only to the present, the moment, a very specific and limited location. These memories put aside and safely preserved, I can choose to never look at it again. I know it's there either way.

It was also good, it was the right thing to do, to go frontline and help out for a season. But all seasons end. I will be glad to finally, officially, eventually, put this one behind us once and for all.

God help us.

And I suppose, though the song will forever have negative connotations for me (for all of us), in closing, the discharge song:

... **Here Comes The Sun.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading.
> 
> Please do whatever is in your power to protect yourself and your community.
> 
> None of us truly know how this is going to end and what the _unbelievable cost to humanity_ will end up being.


	16. Left Arm Please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John helps out at a vaccine clinic.

"It's a complete and utter waste of your time."

John could feel the cool inhale against his nose, as sharp as the words he didn't retort with.

"But suit yourself."

Of late, John had tried incredibly hard to let the smaller things go, choose his battles with care, and overall save his emotional energy for more important issues. But this particular confrontation, he found worthy of at least a little escalation, of an impassioned response. Through slightly clenched teeth, his tone brusque, he spoke. "This is not a waste. This matters."

"But it doesn't have to be you."

"Maybe I want to. Give back. Support the cause."

A puff of disdain came from Sherlock's mouth in both disbelief and annoyance.

"And why does it matter to you anyway? It's not like we had something planned."

"It's just ... beneath you."

"No it isn't." He was truly puzzled at Sherlock's reaction to his statement earlier that he'd signed up to be one of the Covid-19 Vaccinators, volunteering to give jabs at the clinic. "But please explain to me why this bothers you. Because it just doesn't make sense to me."

"That's because, even after all these years, and being together in every way possible, you're still, unfortunately an idiot." With a typical, embellished dramatic spin, he grabbed his coat and strode from the flat, leaving the door wide.

John sighed. Another thing that Sherlock left for him to finish, to clean up after him. Closing the door, he turned to head upstairs, where Rosie was just stirring from her nap.

++

His greetings, instructions, and information varied little between patients.

"Good morning, I'm John. Thanks for ..." An essential worker at Tesco.

"... coming in today for the jab. Any ..." A housekeeper for a hotel.

"... questions about the handouts? Do you have any ..." A young mother.

"... allergies? And can you please confirm your name and ..." A restaurant owner in her seventies.

"... date of birth? Thank you. Which arm would you ..." A retired banker.

"... like your injection in today?" A uni student.

And he almost always ended with a double encouragement: "See you in three weeks, and congratulations on being half way there to immunised against Covid-19."

Until one patient came in, no differently than any of the others, and slid into the seat at his station. Between patients, John's routine varied not at all: bin the trash, hand sanitise, open a new patient record, assure alcohol wipe and plaster were set.

"Good morn --" and he broke stride. The familiar face, eyes, hair, and personae seemed to take over the area as Sherlock waited. A cool but engaged expression met him. "Okay," he said with a brief hesitation. "I didn't know you were coming."

"Would you prefer I see someone else for the jab?"

"Of course not." 

"Well, good, because I've been waiting in line for your rotation, so I could come to you. Let about six people go ahead of me while waiting."

"Wise man," John assured him, still puzzled over his earlier behaviour, but ready to move forward. "I happen to be worth it." He could feel the entirety of his own face respond, giving Sherlock what he knew was a sparkling impish look.

"Oh?" An eyebrow went up suspiciously. "Are you suggesting ...?"

"Of course. But I do give a good jab."

"I'll be the judge of that. Please continue with whatever drivel you are required to --"

"It's not drivel. All of this is very important. And covered in the paperwork you --"

"I binned it already." John glanced curiously at the papers that were still in his hand. "Or tried to. They gave me another set, made me keep it."

"As I said, it is important." Unsurprisingly, this was met by an eye-roll. "And of course, you do live with a physician, who manages to take care of you even when you don't deserve it."

Sherlock scoffed. "Ridiculous." John raised a displeased eyebrow, waiting patiently for Sherlock to look back up at him. "Well, it is. Mostly, for a new vaccine like this that hasn't made it through all the trials, all of this," he tapped at the Vaccine Information Sheet, "is going to be every iteration of saying we don't know, we have no idea, further testing is necessary, or no data is available."

"Do you want this jab or not?" Tactfully, he doesn't mention that previously Sherlock had tried to recruit Mycroft's assistance in Tier One access to it.

"I do." His brows furrowed and the scowl revealing the personal cost. "I just hate that the science, the process, all the safety measures, were compromised --"

"Not all the safety measures --"

"The scientific method exists for a reason."

"Operation Warp Speed means that ..."

"Compromised!"

"They weren't compromised."

"They absolutely were." The words were quiet but zealous as a brief silence between them was fully charged with tension. "Describe phase four to me."

John gritted his teeth, just a little, knowing that he'd just discovered why Sherlock had been bristly earlier. "Technically," he conceded, "we're in phase four. The beauty of this is that mRNA technology was already developed and being studied so that when this need arose, only minute changes were made, the lipid nanoparticle that improved vaccine stability." He could absolutely keep going, but Sherlock stayed silent on that aspect, grudging agreement. "And I know you realise that they overlapped some of the phases in order to expedite --"

He nodded, although still displeased. "They have no idea how long the immunity will last."

"True. No one can argue that the vaccine to treat a virus we've only been aware of for barely more than twelve months -- I mean," and John forced himself to catch his breath. "Obviously, the usual twenty four months of study afterward is not possible. It would have been nice to wait for that - except that people are dying, and --"

"Oh I want it. I'm just frustrated that people - you particularly - aren't acknowledging that the safety you seem to be promoting isn't really quite as safe as it could be."

"I think I've already said this to you, but it bears repeating, and then we have to move forward." He glanced at the line, never-ending, eager, socially distanced in their surroundings. A few of the other volunteers, patients, and even coordinators were keeping an ear tuned to their conversation, the uncharacteristic delay at John's station piquing their interest. "I chose to get the jab because I am at more risk from this novel virus than from the few unknowns about this new vaccine. Every one gets to make up their own mind about it." Their eyes met across the table, blue into blue, serious and momentarily unrushed. "So, what will it be?"

"Please proceed."

"Which arm would you ...?"

"Right." Sherlock's answer was quick. "No, wait, left."

John quirked a brow upward and he chuckled. "Yes those are your two choices."

"Dominant. Right." He let the inflection of the words ask the question, and John grinned as Sherlock vacillated again. "Non-dominant." He glanced downward, puzzling at the dilemma. "Which is recommended?"

"It's personal choice." John smiled again, deeper, drawing on gloves and ripping open the alcohol swab.

"It doesn't matter." He sat up straighter, his non-decision pleasing him greatly for some reason. John waited, a stalemate, without moving. "No, really, you choose."

"I can't." The table across from him, at which another vaccinator and a just arrived patient, were watching them unabashedly. "I won't."

"Then I'll just leave. Just pick one."

"Your arm, your choice."

"Which one did you choose, dominant or non-dominant?"

"That's not how I made my decision."

"Then ...?"

With a sigh, John leaned in a little closer. "I chose the side that I don't sleep on. But it really doesn't matter."

"Gluteus maximus." The words were whispered, audible to John only.

"No." Snickering, John raised a brow at him, again, as his patience was drawing thin. " _Deltoid._ " There was a faint pause. "Or you'll have to leave. Others are waiting."

"I waited. A long time. And this is my turn."

"Which was your choice, so you can't ..."

"Left."

He angled in the seat, pulled up his sleeve, and turned his head away.

Supplies were at the ready: alcohol swab, dry gauze, firm hold, and John looked to Sherlock's face again. "Relax your arm muscle, Sherlock."

"I am."

"You're not." John grasped his elbow lightly, shook it to prove his point, and Sherlock's arm barely moved it was that tense. "Relax it. Rest it in your lap."

"I don't like needles."

"That's better, a little. Relax. And fussing about a needle, you?" He made sure to keep his tone light as he deliberately did not elaborate.

"Not going into a _muscle_."

Had Sherlock been looking at John, he would have seen the fond eye-roll. As it was, John blotted again with the alcohol, pressed hard as he dried it, and dart-like, administered the jab, delivering the medication and withdrawing the needle smoothly. "There, you're done."

"That was it?" Sherlock snapped his attention to where John had activated the needle-guard and was disposing of the empty syringe into the needlebox. "I didn't even ... are you sure?"

"See? Worth the wait." Under his breath, he muttered a very quiet, sarcastic _oh_ _please_ , and John nodded. "Tiny volume, small needle. People are barely feeling them." He unwrapped the plaster, placed it over the site, and began to clean up. "Mine was mildly sore the next day."

"I'm impressed." He rolled down his sleeve, moved to stand up. "So that's it?"

"Next dose in twenty-one days."

"What?!"

++

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An after-completion chapter. Apologies to anyone this has inconvenienced. I know, one of these days I'll say it's ended and actually mean it.
> 
> ++
> 
> A/N: As a frontline Covid ICU nurse, I signed up reluctantly to help with our vaccine program and I'm so glad I did. It is both hopeful and satisfying. I know we will be seeing the virus for months yet, but this really does feel like the beginning of the end. It is good - and settling - to be an active part of the solution.
> 
> Be well.
> 
> ++
> 
> Annnnnnd ... meanwhile at the hospital, Christmas covidiots are upon us. [Really? You have diabetes, are overweight, have hypertension, and you thought it was completely harmless to have an extended family Christmas gathering of twenty people? And, well, our quarantine circles are all very small, so I thought it would be okay. I understand it really, but common sense sometimes goes out the window as families who are well-meaning spread this virus - college students and grandparents aren't a very good mix during this season. And on and on it goes.]
> 
> Go away, coronavirus. We are tired of your exhausting presence and the pall you have cast over all aspects of our lives.


	17. Postscript:  Goodbye, Farewell, and Amen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title stolen shamelessly from the best series finale ever, M*A*S*H.
> 
> A/N to Self: This is it. No more. Leave the bitter hurts and the deep loss and the lingering pain behind. Move forward - like this final _fluffy, hopeful, feel-good chapter_ \- because better days are ahead. Put this piece to bed, fluff the pillow, tuck up the covers, press a kiss to its temple, and resolutely tell it goodnight as you tiptoe quietly from the room. It is resting now, complete and at peace. Take a deep breath and do not disturb.
> 
> [Yes, the contents of this opening note is an iteration of a particularly timely and sweet comment gifted to me a few chapters back and never forgotten. Thank you for your gentle encouragement. Wisely chosen words are so powerful.]

John glanced up from the book he was reading as the faint waft of smoke shifted in his direction, the wood in the mossy stone firepit not _quite_ seasoned enough to burn crisply. A snap of some of the residual green expressed its discontent and resistance to the heat but finally succumbed to heat and flame. A thin stream of smoke puffed out from the cut end of the logs, evaporation and heat and accelerated drying. Footsteps in the leaves galloped closer along with the sound of breathing, rapid and too quick for human approach, and before John could even react defensively, something green and slimy hit the open book he'd been reading, rolling down the spine into his lap. A path of viscous wet trailed down the page.

"Ewww, stop it," he complained, grasping the ball between thumb and finger and hurling it off to the side, away from the fire pit, away from the rest of the chairs, away from the car they'd driven up in.

The beast, the now four-year-old mutt Rosie had begged for until they'd finally given in, lumbered away in chase, his happy wriggle and wagging tail flailing side to side. He was shaggy and brown, had kind and mischievous eyes, and was very, very loved.

He'd known all along, despite Rosie's words and Sherlock's assurances, that the care and keeping of the dog would most certainly fall to him.

And it had, but he was okay with it - the dog, aptly named Proboscis but shortened to Bosco most of the time - was good company, loyal to a fault, and rather well-behaved. Except for his cluelessness about dropping a soggy tennis ball into or at or on top of anyone or anything he darn well wanted. Laundry, frequently, especially if it was freshly clean. An open can of paint, only once.

"Sit," John said gently when the dog returned, tennis ball hanging out one side of his mouth, tongue out the other. Slime was abundant from both. Obediently, he fell to a jumble at John's side, set the ball down, and raised his snout up for John to rub. "Good boy."

The book got a bit more of John's attention until, a few minutes later, he heard slower footsteps approach, human ones this time. The dullness of quiet conversation, Sherlock and Rosie, was low key and not distracting.

"Oh good, he's here." Both of them carried a few medium-sized branch pieces for the fire; later, the expected bonfire would be bigger and very pleasing, the nighttime blaze throwing light and heat and comfort. The logs went into the small pile nearby. "Crazy dog. Took a beeline a few minutes back, we figured he was headed your direction." Rosie sipped at her water bottle, her long ponytail becoming even longer down past her shoulders. At seventeen, she was an unpredictable delight most of the time. Sullen only rarely, a spitfire of a teenager, with the expected ups and downs of emotion and drama and dreaming. And beautiful. Her blue eyes, wide Watson smile, her amusement and curiosity, orthodontics finally complete, freckles fading with simply growing out of them and a judicious amount of make-up - both John and Sherlock, of course, adored her.

"He's been here long enough to permanently disfigure my book with his slobber."

"I see you're still on page thirty-two, though, so you didn't actually get much reading done while we were walking." Sherlock's tone was fond and amused.

"Collect anything fun?" John ignored the jibe as Sherlock in turn ignored him.

Rosie stepped up to explain. "Saw some owl pellets. Some unidentified animal scat. A huge tree with some bizarre blight." Rosie chuckled a little. "But, no, other than the wood, didn't collect anything."

"I guess that's ... good." John raised a brow in Sherlock's direction. 

"We found the trail of something. I'm not quite sure what. Deer perhaps. Made for a nice stroll." 

Rosie found her mobile, tucked one headphone in, settled into a seat close to the fire. When Sherlock also sat down, John closed the book, set it aside. "This was a good idea."

"Tradition."

For a lot of years, marking the end of summer holiday, they'd been coming to a borrowed cottage in the woods not far from Sussex. Just from renting it regularly, they'd become somewhat acquainted with the owner, the area, and now and again had helped with some maintenance around the place. Mostly though, it was a getaway, a long weekend for just the three of them. The setting, rural but not completely isolated, enough creature comforts, in great shape, and perfect for what they needed it for.

It had started the first year after the Covid 19 pandemic as a place away from crowds and people and contagion and the relentless, depressing media coverage. John hadn't realised how large a toll it had taken on him - and on Sherlock and Rosie - until that first getaway. He'd booked it on a rash impulse, a desire to get away from London and the associated exhaustion, a recommendation of an acquaintance. Rosie had been barely three, and that first night, he'd tucked her into the smaller bedroom. Joining Sherlock then out by the fire, huddled close, the low flames mesmerising and comforting and beautiful against the backdrop of trees, the stillness heavy and serene. Their faces had been golden in the burnished hues, serious, and thoughtful.

"This is really nice," John had said, his breathing settled, relaxed, and his eyes had flicked to Sherlocks, where the firelight danced over the dimples, the cheekbones, the glimmer of light shining in his pale eyes. "It's been ... rough." Both of them had recognised the inadequacy of the word. Further description had been unnecessary. "Thanks for walking it with me."

In answer, Sherlock had tipped his glass toward John, a toast with small tumblers of scotch that he'd readied while John was inside with Rosie. The toast had been followed by a press of lips, stating commitment and affirmation, no words required. And later, in the cottage, the sweetness of the two of them together in the big soft bed, of hushed chuckles and appreciative moans and the sweet sweet sighs of fulfillment, of satisfaction.

And each year, the events were different but the sentiment remained - we're in this together, we're all right, our family has done hard things, we're stronger now than we've ever been. We're survivors.

Our family has indeed done hard things, John mused in the present, watching the dog nibbling on a chew toy, watching Rosie turn up the volume on a favourite song, watching Sherlock as he poked and prodded the fire, tucking a variety of things into the base of the flames, probably running calculations of flammability or some other observation known and appreciated only by him.

This year, Rosie's last before university, John had something special planned. And although it couldn't be completely assured, he didn't think Sherlock had any suspicions.

Dinner was served al fresco, by the fire, interspersed with laughter, and music, and silliness until finally, as they'd done every year, John dug out toasting glasses, sparkling cider for Rosie, prosecco for he and Sherlock. They knew, as was also the usual, that he would have something to say, and so Rosie sat back, her eyes bright and big. Sherlock also watched, patiently waiting, an eye on his beloved family. And probably something still smouldering curiously in the glowing ashes.

"To commemorate the occasion, before Rosie's new adventure, I've something new this year."

Sherlock sharply looked over, eyes narrowed in speculation, seeing John's secretive expression, his smile and the way his eyes twinkled back at him, and in that moment, he realised - and John confirmed - that a surprise had been a success.

Silently, John raised his glass as he offered up the usual words, "Another year," and they joined him, glasses clinking, taking a sip. "I still love it here. Every year, reminders that, even when it gets really bad," and his smile brightened as he glanced between them and left the sentence unfinished. Resolutely, he chose not to revisit or restate the trauma, the residual toll, the helplessness of a bad situation. Surreptitiously, Sherlock stretched out a long leg, tucking his ankle underneath John's shin. A wordless reminder, _I'm here for you, we're okay._

Rosie interrupted, her energy and excitement giving way to impatience. "Really, really bad. We know. Yes, bad. We've moved on, blah blah blah." She'd certainly been told, had read, researched, and asked many questions about the pandemic, the trauma, the toll on not only her family, but the nation, the world. To her it was old news. "Come on, dad! What is it?"

He pulled an envelope from his pocket, held it out toward them both. Sherlock reached in with his free hand as John steadied the outer packaging. Rosie urged them on, under her breath murmurings to hurry up.

"What is it?" Rosie demanded as Sherlock unfolded the papers, freeing several other small items. In one hand, three separate keyrings, three keys.

With an impressed nod, an inhale of being caught off guard, Sherlock read quickly. "An executed agreement of sale for this place. I suppose that answers that, then." Just the other evening, they'd been discussing what their futures, their retirement options, might look like. Sherlock considered now, slightly unhappily, that he'd been set up. And unaware. "Interesting," he noted, with a tilt of his head. "I'm impressed."

John smiled in return, hearing Rosie's pleased exclamations and Sherlock's voiced approval. "There's a contingency, in case either of you hated the idea, but I was kind of hoping ..."

"No, you can't give it back!" Rosie seemed shocked at the idea. "Dad!"

Sherlock chuckled, reached his arm around Rosie to pull her close, awkward given the chairs and the proximity of the firepit. "He's just being polite, in case I was stroppy about his making a unilateral decision. Which I'm not."

"You're sure?" John murmured quietly. "It's ... perhaps not what you had in mind." He gestured grandly at the cottage, which was a solid place, amenities, a good heating system, updated kitchen, cool enough in summer not to need air conditioning, newly added water and sewer systems. The roof was only a few years old. "I know it needs better internet and ..."

"That's so true," Rosie agreed hastily, and for all the times that they'd come, it was this matter, the slowly loading internet access that she complained about the most.

"Yes, I'm sure." Sherlock did in fact seem sure. Settled.

The deal was sealed, John and Sherlock with a quick kiss followed by a three-way group hug. That was rather quickly interrupted by a wet snout, nudging, Bosco inserting himself between legs and snuffling into whatever hands he could manage.

Rosie broke the silence and reached down with her fingers to rumple at the sensitive spot behind his ears. “Whatcha think, Bosco?”

Bosco perked up his ears and seemed to smile at his family, looking inquisitively among them. His tail thumped rhythmically against the ground but that wasn't enough. He seemed to know that all were watching him and waiting, so in his excitement, he dashed over to the dwindling woodpile, picked up his ball, and brought it back to the cluster of people. This time, when the ball was thrust into John's hand, there were no grumblings about the slime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you. And good night, Gracie.
> 
> While I'm at it, God bless us, everyone.
> 
> Okay, in addition to the title, apparently I'm rampantly plagiarising other classics as well. I'm not even going to apologise. Actually, yes I am: Many apologies. But it is true what is said about imitation and flattery.
> 
> [And not to be too silly, but ... If only I could work in my all time favourite fandom line - "come on cowboy, let's see what you're packing." Maybe another time then.]
> 
> ++
> 
> Deep breath, all. Thank you again.
> 
> Let me know please, kindly, if something is unclear or misstated.
> 
> There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven.  
> ... a time to heal, ... a time to be silent and a time to speak ..., and a time for peace.  
> Eccl 3:1,3,7,8

**Author's Note:**

> Remember the healthcare providers. And their families - They do not exist in a vacuum.


End file.
